WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 
AND  HIS  WIFE 

By 

A.  M.  W.  STIRLING 


'! 


Photogravure  Frontispiece  and  38  Illustra- 
tions from  photographs  of  Wm.  de  Morgan’s 
pottery,  Evelyn  de  Morgan’s  paintings,  &c. 


HENRY  HOLT 

New  York  Chicago 


AND  COMPANY 

Boston  San 


William  De  Morgan 
and  his  Wife 

By  A.  M.  W.  STIRLING 


'JTIE  Life  of  William  De  Morgan,  artist,  potter, 

and  novelist,  will  appeal  to  a very  wide  circle 
in  England  and  America.  The  curious  and  ro- 
mantic story  of  his  career  presents  certain  fea- 
tures which  are  unique  in  the  history  of  Art  and 
Literature ; and  the  man  wrho  first  made  his  fame 
as  an  author  at  the  age  of  sixty-seven — an  age 
at  which  Balzac  and  Dickens,  Fielding  and  Zola, 
had  long  been  dead — has  left  behind  him  a repu- 
tation which  a more  intimate  knowledge  of  his 
Character  will  greatly  enhance.  His  correspond- 
ence quoted  in  this  volume  is  full  of  the  pithy, 
wise  sayings,  the  quaint  philosophy,  the  whim- 
sical humour,  and  the  shrewd  insight  into  human 
nature  for  which  he  was  noted,  so  that  it  forms 
a human  document  of  rare  interest. 

A many-sided  genius,  with  his  wonderful  work 
as  a ceramic  artist,  the  profundity  of  his  knowl- 
edge as  a scientist  and  an  inventor,  and  his  final 
revelation  as  a novelist,  De  Morgan  was  likewise 
the  friend  and  associate  of  William  Morris, 
Rosetti,  Burne-Jones,  whose  letters  appear  in  this 
volume.  An  Idealist  and  yet  a Realist,  he  has 
been  compared  to  his  heroine  Lossie,  of  whom  it 
was  said  that  when  she  entered  a room  it  was  as 
though  some  one  had  suddenly  pulled  up  the 
blinds  and  let  in  the  sunshine. 

Nor  was  his  wife  a less  arresting  personality 
with  her  fine  achievement  as  an  artist  and  her 
rich  imagination.  Perhaps  since  the  Brownings 
there  has  been  no  other  instance  of  two  people, 
so  gifted  and  so  entirely  in  harmony  in  then- 
genius,  each  acting  and  re-acting  on  the  life-work 
of  the  other.  Sir  Edward  Poynter,  P.R.A.,  look- 
ing after  De  Morgan  and  his  wife  one  day  as 
they  left  his  beautiful  garden,  epitomised  the 
impression  created  by  their  progress:  “There,” 
he  said,  “go  two  of  the  rarest  spirits  of  the  age  ” 


HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
19  West  44th  Street  - - New  York 


WILLIAM 
DE  MORGAN 
AND  HIS  WIFE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2015 


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WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 
AND  HIS  WIFE 


BY 

A.  M.  W.  STIRLING 

Author  of  “Coke  of  Norfolk,”  etc. 

With  a Preface  by  the  late  Sir  William  Richmond , K.C.B. , R.A. 


‘Mr.  De  Morgan  is  a national  institution  ; and 
one  would  as  soon  think  of  criticising  the  Bank 
of  England  as  of  criticising  one  of  his  novels.  * 

— Literary  Supplement  of  The  Times 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


AUTHORIZED  EDITION 


PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


To 

BOTH 

* Have  you  ever  picked  a sheaf  of  brilliant  autumn 
leaves,  glowing  like  transparent  rubies  in  the  sunlight, 
and  carried  them  home  to  your  dim  room  ? If  you 
have,  you  have  known  that  which  I felt.  Where 
was  the  glow,  the  glory,  the  crimson  flame  ? All 
gone.  . . . 

' And  just  so  from  my  written  words  had  faded 
the  rich  glow  that  shone  around  them  in  my  fancy 
when  they  were  still  unwritten.  Alas  ! the  leaves — 
the  words — were  alike  worthless  by  themselves/ 

From  Generation  to  Generation. 

By  Lady  Augusta  Noel. 


Composite  Monogram 
for  himself  and  his  Wife 
designed  by  De  Morgan. 


* It  is  the  best  thing  on  Earth — that  incessant  struggle.  . . k Art  is 
more  important  than  you  think.  But  it  must  be  earnest,  grim  life-earnest- 
ness that  has  no  tincture  of  gain  in  it  or  love  of  earth-fame,  only  the 
strength  of  one’s  arm,  and  the  whole  power  of  one’s  being  is  to  be  given 
to  it ; and  to  look  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  but  go  straight  on 
doing  the  best  that  is  in  one.’ 


The  Result  of  an  Experiment. 


PREFACE 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 
By  an  Old  Friend 

(The  late  Sir  William  Richmond,  R.A.) 

1AM  not  sure  if  it  was  in  the  autumn  of  1859  or  the  spring  °* 
i860,  when  I was  working  in  the  schools  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  that  a tall,  rather  gaunt  young  man  arrived  as  a 
nouveau , who  excited  among  us  of  a term’s  seniority  some 
interest.  He  was  an  original,  that  was  evident  at  starting.  His 
capacious  forehead  denoted  power,  his  grey  eyes  tenderness,  his 
delicately  formed  nose  refinement,  and  his  jaw  strength.  But 
the  commanding  characteristic  was  unmistakably  humour.  He 
spoke  with  a curious  accent,  his  voice,  as  if  it  had  never  quite 
settled  to  be  soprano  or  bass,  moved  with  flexibility  up  and  down 
the  scale,  and  every  sentence  was  finished  with  a certain  drawl. 
This  was  a trait  caught  by  many  of  Rossetti’s  friends.  This 
youth  was  William  de  Morgan,  son  of  the  celebrated  mathema- 
tician and  his  wife,  a distinguished  lady,  highly  cultivated, 
intimate  friend  of  Carlyle  and  other  leaders  of  the  thought  of  the 
times,  and  much  loved  by  her  friends. 

He  came  into  the  schools  at  a brilliant  moment.  Fred  Walker, 
that  delicately  organized  genius,  was  his  senior  by  one  term. 
Albert  Moore,  perhaps  the  most  classic  painter  of  the  time,  was 
already  drawing  with  great  taste  in  the  schools  and  making  noble 
designs,  some  pre-Raphaelite,  some  classical.  Andrew  Donaldson 
promised  much  as  a student.  Henry  Holiday  was  precocious  ; 
but  the  greatest  genius  of  our  set  was  S.  Solomon,  that  wonderful 
little  Jew  who  might  have  risen  to  any  height  of  distinction  if  he 
had  chosen  to  encourage  his  great  gifts.  I was  the  youngest  of 
the  group  which  was  composed  of  ardent  young  men  furnished 
with  ability  and  determination  to  labour  hard  to  deserve  dis- 
tinction. It  was  in  this  coterie  that  William  De  Morgan  found 
himself  welcomed.  From  the  day  I first  shook  hands  with  him 
till  the  last,  when  he  sat  beside  me  in  sickness,  we  were  close  and 
staunch  friends. 

As  an  Academic  artist  he  did  not  count  for  much  : his  genius 
did  not  lie  in  a groove  or  grooves.  His  early  work  was  as  a 
designer  for  stained  glass  ; I have  seen  some  very  interesting 

9 


10 


PREFACE 


work  from  his  hand  in  that  difficult  branch  of  the  art  into  which 
incompetence  too  often  strays  and  where  genius  is  so  rarely 
visible.  De  Morgan,  as  a son  of  a great  man  and  a very  popular 
and  highly  esteemed  mother,  was  early  thrown  into  the  intellec- 
tual blue.  Well  grounded  at  King’s  College  (si'c)  he  was  a fair 
classical  scholar,  but  it  was  not  in  any  portion  of  his  character 
created  by  education  that  he  was  remarkable.  Pre-eminently 
he  was  original,  entirely  uncommonplace.  He  had  a quaint 
invention,  he  took  a quaint  view  of  everything.  He  was  a master 
of  the  unexpected,  a creator  of  paradox,  a serious  humorist.  A 
very  delicate  constitution  forbade  athletics  of  all  kinds.  His  body 
had  to  beware  of  excess,  his  mind  could  adroitly  play  with  it. 
Public  opinion  he  cared  for  not  a jot ; he  was  his  own  critic  in  as 
much  as  he  always  strove  for  perfection.  The  progress  of  his 
mind  was  swift  as  well  as  persistent ; a bit  of  wire,  a bit  of  wood 
provided  hours  of  enjoyment  for  his  creative  mind,  one  moment 
dwelling  on  a vast  scheme  for  flying  or  under-water  piracy, 
another  in  adding  some  delicacy  to  the  construction  of  his  bicycle. 

His  extreme  ingenuity  may  have  been  not  altogether  an 
advantage,  it  made  him  jump  from  one  subject  to  another  with  too 
facile  dexterity.  He  was  not  what  is  commonly  called  brilliant, 
it  was  natural  rhetoric  ; he  never  talked  for  effect.  So  simply 
and  oddly  was  his  very  simple  mind  arranged  that  he  could  play 
with  his  ideas  and  command  them  to  quaintness  or  paradox,  as  he 
wished,  without  ever  rendering  them  ridiculous.  In  this  respect 
De  Morgan  was  Dickens’s  equal,  the  Dickens  that  he  knew  so  well 
and  so  deeply  admired,  but  with  no  plagiarism.  As  Dickens’s 
characters  are  his  and  only  his,  so  are  De  Morgan’s.  Nobody 
else  has  ever  made  quainter  people  to  say  quainter  things,  which, 
however,  are  never  forced  but  just  bubble  out  as  the  stream  of  a 
character  moves  on. 

De  Morgan’s  writing  has  been  compared  with  Thackeray’s, 
but  surely  on  close  investigation  there  is  little  if  any  similarity. 
De  Morgan  was  in  no  sense  a satirist : he  was  a humorist,  he  was 
no  cynic,  he  was  a playful,  wayward  optimist  who  saw  kindly, 
conceived  generously,  and  was  much  nearer  comedy  than  tragedy. 
Pathos  there  was,  but  of  a type  quite  his  own ; not  of  the  stage 
one  bit,  but  entirely  employed  in  a kind  of  unconscious  manner 
out  of  the  character  he  was  manipulating  with  such  quaint  lines 
and  elaborate  byplay. 

Literature,  or  rather  novel  writing,  is,  on  the  whole,  more 
universally  estimated  and  valued  than  any  other  form  of  Art  by 
the  general  public  ; it  is  therefore  likely  that  De  Morgan  will 
live  in  the  future  more  by  reason  of  his  writings  than  his  designs 
or  superb  pottery.  He  will  live  among  his  friends  as  a delightful 
companion,  a queer  unexpected  talker,  not  exactly  brilliant,  but 
fantastic,  if  child-like,  by  reason  of  a certain  simplicity  which  took 


PREFACE 


IT 


for  granted  he  could  never  be  a bore,  and  he  never  could  be,  for, 
clever  as  he  was,  ready  tongued  as  he  was,  a freshness  was  always 
maintained  which  one  knew  to  be  quite  spontaneous,  unaffected 
and  sincere. 

His  Wife  and  He 

Although  William  De  Morgan  was  complete  as  a personality 
in  which  each  part  bore  relation  to  the  whole,  he  was  made  even 
more  highly  finished  by  the  remarkable  woman  he  married  and 
who  outlived  him  but  for  a short  time. 

I knew  her  before  her  marriage,  both  in  London  and  in 
Florence,  where  she  lived  so  much  with  her  uncle,  Spencer- 
Stanhope,  who  no  doubt  was  her  guide,  philosopher  and  friend  in 
most  things,  and  to  whose  influence  was  certainly  due  the  direc- 
tion that  her  great  gifts  as  a draughtsman  and  painter  took.  It 
is  seldom  that  a marriage  is  absolutely  successful,  where  the  road 
of  life  taken  is  so  similar,  where  the  temperaments  are  completely 
in  accord,  and  where  no  commonplace  rubs  against  life’s  sharp 
and  tiresome  edges  ever  occur.  Evelyn  and  William  De  Morgan 
were  absolutely  one : one  in  sympathy,  in  intelligence  and  its 
direction,  one  in  tastes,  and  in  perfect  companionship.  They 
teased  and  chaffed  one  another  as  school-boys  do,  they  were 
amused  at  each  other’s  idiosyncrasies,  and  I verily  believe  amused 
also  at  their  mental  similarity.  He  believed  in  her  Art  and  she 
in  his.  They  were  both  artistic  in  the  highest  sense,  and  where 
the  business  capacity  came  in  is  a puzzle  to  every  one.  She  had 
more  than  he.  His  capacity  as  a business  man  was  probably  nil, 
hers  was  only  a little  more  than  nil ; but  her  money  was  his,  and, 
with  what  is  often  called  generosity,  she  gave  it  up,  as  all  his  and 
her  friends  know,  to  save  crashes  and  to  make  one  more  glorious 
pot. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  relate  her  life,  it  is  written  in  this  book ; 
its  splendid  dedication  to  Art  and  to  her  husband,  her  constant 
going  on  fighting  non-success,  always  making  fresh  efforts  to 
achieve  perfection  of  finish  and  technique  as  noble  as  it  was 
strong,  as  consistent  as  constant.  If  her  later  work  is  sometimes 
overcharged  with  detail,  a little  over- weight,  Evelyn  De  Morgan 
was  a finished  artist  of  no  mean  quality.  In  their  respective 
spheres,  he  had  the  humour,  the  irresponsibility ; she  supplied 
sometimes  an  almost  austere  integrity  and  a conscientiousness, 
carried  sometimes  so  far  as  to  mask  slightly  the  spontaneity  of 
her  just  conception.  She  drew  beautifully ; indeed,  the  many 
volumes  which  remain  containing  drawings  of  the  nude,  and 
draperies,  flowers,  leaves — in  short  all  things  inanimate — are, 
perhaps,  the  most  complete  efforts  of  her  genius.  . . . 


12 


PREFACE 


Thus  fay  had  Sir  William  Richmond  written  when  death  inter- 
vened, and  this  unfinished  tribute  to  his  friends  remains  the  last 
thing  ever  traced  by  his  pen. 

He  had , according  to  what  he  once  mentioned  to  the  author , 
intended  to  dwell  at  far  greater  length  on  the  arresting  personality  of 
Evelyn  De  Morgan , on  her  achievement  as  an  artist,  especially  on 
the  marvel  and  the  purity  of  her  colouring,  and  on  her  rich  inspira- 
tion. Yet  the  faithfulness  of  both  incomplete  portraits,  drawn  thus 
in  a few  facile  words,  will  be  apparent  to  all  who  knew  those  of  whom 
he  writes  : while  in  this  connexion,  as  certain  of  his  observations  may 
be  found  duplicated  in  the  volume  which  follows,  it  should  be  men- 
tioned that  the  preface  was  designedly  written  without  its  writer  having 
seen  the  work  of  the  biographer  ; and  vice  versa. 

Only  in  one  particular,  however,  is  a brief  elucidation  perhaps 
desirable.  The  austerity  of  which  he  speaks  in  connexion  with 
Evelyn  refers  solely  to  her  earnestness  in  regard  to  work.  Both  in 
art  and  literature,  De  Morgan’s  spontaneity  and  his  happy-go-lucky 
methods — equally  the  outcome  of  a great  sincerity — contrast  with  her 
profound  and  studied  conscientiousness : but  apart  from  work,  the 
sense  of  humour  shared  by  both  was  one  of  their  most  marked 
characteristics.  Evelyn  had  a quick  wit,  an  irrepressible  sense  of 
the  ludicrous,  and  a rare  gift  as  a raconteuse.  Even  in  her  most 
serious  mood,  her  sense  of  fun  would  not  be  suppressed,  and  a jest, 
known  only  to  the  initiated,  peeps  from  the  canvas  of  her  gravest  con- 
ceptions. To  both  of  them,  if  life  proved,  in  much,  a sorry  struggle 
owing  to  their  disinterested  pursuit  of  an  Ideal,  combined  with  their 
entire  lack  of  worldly  wisdom  and  self-advertisement,  it  was,  in  more, 
a merry  adventure  to  be  regarded  with  laughter  in  the  present  and  a 
somewhat  misty  but  enduring  hopefulness  for  that  Future  which  no 
man  can  fathom. 

When,  late  in  middle-age,  success  came  to  De  Morgan,  he  rejoiced 
in  it  with  the  simplicity  and  the  freshness  of  a child.  To  Evelyn  all 
celebrity  was  hateful,  and  she  valued  appreciation  only  as  it  proved 
an  incentive  to  greater  effort.  Work,  to  her,  was  the  joy  of  existence, 
and  she  laboured — voluntarily,  unceasingly — from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave.  * I knew  them  for  twenty  years,’  relates  one  friend,  ' and  I 
never  heard  her  mention  her  painting.  * She  had  an  exquisite  and 
a retiring  mind,’  her  obituary  stated  when  that  life-work  was  done. 

It  is  unusual  to  find  two  people,  so  gifted  and  so  entirely  in 
7iarmony  in  their  art,  who  acted  and  re-acted  on  each  other’s  genius. 
Their  romance  is  one  before  which  the  pen  falters  : but  which,  never- 
theless, was  an  abiding  factor  in  all  they  have  left  to  the  world  : and 
Sir  Edward  Poynter,  P.R.A.,  looking  after  De  Morgan  and  his  wife 
one  day,  as  they  left  his  beautiful  garden,  epitomized  the  impression 
created  by  their  presence.  * There  ’ he  said , * go  two  of  the  rarest 
spirits  of  the  Age/ 


AUTHOR’S  NOTE 


HE  author  wishes  to  express  her  sincere  thanks  to  all  who 


have  aided  her  in  procuring  material  for  the  following 


In  America  her  thanks  are  due  to  many  unknown  but  valued 
friends  ; particularly  to  Professor  Lyon  Phelps  for  his  assistance 
and  cordial  sympathy ; to  Mr.  Louis  Joseph  Vance  for  the  in- 
teresting letters  he  lent ; to  Miss  Olive  Russell  and  others  for 
their  contributions  of  some  charming  correspondence. 

In  England  the  author's  thanks  are  primarily  due  to  Miss  May 
Morris ; to  Mr.  Reginald  Blunt,  Mr.  Halsey  Ricardo  and  Mr. 
Shaw  Sparrow  for  the  correspondence  and  information  they 
supplied  respecting  the  manufacture  of  the  pottery ; to  Mr. 
Richard  De  Morgan  and  Mr.  Walter  Kelsall  for  assistance  with 
the  early  history  of  the  family  ; to  Mr.  Amherst  Tyssen  for  the 
extracts  from  his  diary ; to  Professor  and  Mrs.  Mackail,  and  to 
Mr.  Henry  Holiday  and  his  family  for  many  delightful  letters  and 
anecdotes.  Thanks  are  also  due  to  Mary,  Countess  of  Lovelace ; 
to  Miss  F.  Seeley,  Mrs.  Spencer  Pickering,  and  Mr.  Herbert 
Russell-Cotes  for  permission  to  reproduce  pictures  in  their  posses- 
sion ; to  the  authorities  of  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum  for 
their  leave  to  publish  photographs  of  the  De  Morgan  pottery  in 
their  charge  ; and  to  Mrs.  E.  Smith  ( nee  Ethel  Glazebrook)  for  the 
fine  photograph  taken  by  her  of  William  De  Morgan. 

The  author  also  wishes  to  express  her  thanks  to  the  editors 
of  the  Burlington  Magazine,  the  Bookman,  the  Cornhill,  the 
Manchester  Guardian,  Printer's  Pie,  The  World's  Work,  and  the 
New  York  Herald  for  their  great  courtesy  in  allowing  her  to  quote 
from  articles  which  have  appeared  in  their  publications  : likewise 
to  Mr.  Pawling  for  having  kindly  placed  at  her  disposal  Mr.  De 
Morgan’s  correspondence  with  the  late  Mr.  William  Heinemann. 

Her  gratitude  is  also  due  to  many  others  who  have  aided  her 
materially  by  contributing  correspondence  or  information,  par- 
ticularly to  the  following  : Mrs.  Allingham,  Mr.  Stewart  Ellis, 
Deaconess  Gilmore  (the  sister  of  William  Morris),  Mr.  H.  de  T. 
Glazebrook,  Lady  Glenconner,  the  Rev.  Augustus  De  Morgan 
Hensley,  Mrs.  Horatio  Lucas,  Mr.  Walter  De  Morgan,  Mr.  Scott- 
Moncrieff,  Mrs.  Bram  Stoker,  Mrs.  G.  F.  Watts,  Mrs.  HughWoolner, 


work. 


13 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 


14 

etc. ; and  to  Mrs.  Edward  Carpenter  and  Mr.  Lionel  Bradgate, 
M.A.,  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  for  kindly  reading  the  proofs. 

If,  however,  among  the  great  number  of  those  who  have 
written  to  her  from  all  parts  of  the  world  it  has  been  impossible 
to  mention  categorically  the  names  of  all  to  whom  she  is  indebted, 
or  for  lack  of  space  to  make  use  of  some  of  the  interesting  material 
which  they  provided,  she  trusts  they  will  understand  that,  in 
writing  this  book  (an  endeavour  to  compress  into  one  volume  the 
story  of  two  full  and  many-sided  lives),  she  has  suffered  consider- 
ably from  what  William  De  Morgan  termed  4 the  true  writer's 
cramp/  and  that  they  will  forgive  her  sins  of  omission  as  well  as 
of  commission. 


W.  De  Morgan  fecit. 


LIST  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Preface.  By  the  late  Sir  William  Richmond, 

R.A. 

• 

* 

9 

chap. 

I 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 
Ancestry  and  Parentage  . . . 

• 

« 

• 

21 

II 

A Nursery  Journal  . . . • 

• 

• 

• 

38 

III 

The  Old  Man’s  Youth  • • • 

• 

• 

• 

51 

IV 

The  Chelsea  Period  • . • . 

• 

• 

• 

82 

V 

The  Merton  Period  . . . . 

• 

• 

• 

102 

VI 

EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 
The  Story  of  the  Pickerings  . 

• 

• 

• 

135 

VII 

Pen-drift  (to  be  omitted  by  the  captious). 

• 

• 

• 

153 

VIII 

The  Thorny  Way  .... 

• 

• 

• 

173 

IX 

WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 
The  Fulham  Period  ..<»•• 

• 

• 

199 

X 

Joseph  Vance  ..... 

230 

XI 

The  Man  and  the  Method  . . . 

• 

• 

• 

261 

XII 

* Alice  ’ and  * Sally  ’ ... 

• 

• 

• 

276 

Kin 

The  ‘ Real  Janey  * . . . . 

• 

• 

• 

308 

XIV 

‘ Blind  Jim  ’ and  ‘ Lucinda  * . 

• 

• 

• 

313 

XV 

Several  ‘ Unlikely  Stories  ’ and  * Ghosts  * 

• 

• 

336 

XVI 

* The  Young  Man’s  Old  Age  ’ . . 

• 

• 

• 

359 

XVII 

The  ‘Long  Diminuendo*  • • • 

• 

• 

• 

377 

Index  ..••••• 

391 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FULL  PAGE 

William  De  Morgan,  setat.  76  (in  Photogravure)  . ...  Frontispiece 

FACING 

PAGE 

The  Sons  of  Professor  De  Morgan  ......  56 

Sketch  in  imitation  of  Caravaggio,  by  E.  Burne-Jones  . . 72 

The  Alchemist’s  Daughter,  picture  by  William  De  Morgan  . . 84 

Tile,  by  William  De  Morgan,  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Halsey 

Ricardo  ..........  88 

Lustre  bottle,  by  William  De  Morgan  .....  96 

Letter  written  by  William  De  Morgan  to  his  cousin,  Miss  Fanny 

Seeley  ..........  104 

Lustre  bowl,  by  William  De  Morgan  ......  120 

A Peacock,  a dish  .........  126 

Boreas  and  the  Dying  Leaves,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . 136 

A Panel  of  Six  Tiles  ........  150 

The  Daughters  of  the  Mist,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . 160 

The  Storm-Spirits,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . • 166 

The  Mater  Dolorosa,  sculpture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . ,.  176 

Medusa  in  bronze,  sculpture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . . 186 

Aurora  Triumphans,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . • . 192 

Love’s  Passing,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  ....  200 

Vase  in  gold  and  silver  lustre,  by  William  De  Morgan  . . 216 

The  god  Pan,  in  pottery,  by  William  De  Morgan  . . . 224 

The  pottery  marks,  and  a panel  in  relief,  by  William  De  Morgan  228 
Saint  Christina  giving  her  father’s  jewels  to  the  poor,  picture  by 

Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . .....  232 

The  Little  Sea-maid,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . . 240 

The  Five  Mermaids,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . . 248 

The  Valley  of  Shadows,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . 260 

William  De  Morgan,  from  a photograph  .....  264 

'"Persian”  Vase . 272 

Am  Antelope 284 


17 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 

PAGE 

Queen  Eleanor  and  Fair  Rosamund,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  296 
The  Sleeping  Earth  and  Wakening  Moon,  picture  by  Evelyn  De 

Morgan 308 

The  Garden  of  Opportunity,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . 310 

The  Poor  Man  who  saved  the  City,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  312 

Portrait  of  William  De  Morgan,  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . 316 

No.  1,  The  Vale,  Chelsea,  from  a photograph  ....  320 

Helen  of  Troy,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  ....  344 

The  Worship  of  Mammon,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . 358 

The  Moonbeams  dipping  into  the  Sea,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  368 

Headstone  for  the  grave  of  William  De  Morgan,  designed  by 

Evelyn  De  Morgan  ........  376 

In  Memoriam,  picture  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  . . . » 386 

ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  THE  TEXT 

PAGE 

Composite  monogram  for  himself  and  his  wife,  designed  by 
William  De  Morgan  .....  Below  dedication 
Sketch  by  William  De  Morgan  of  Eagle  and  Rabbit  ...  14 

“ An  Earl  riding  on  a Caterpillar,”  sketch  by  William  De  Morgan  50 

Mrs.  Bale,  pen-sketch  by  William  De  Morgan,  aetat.  16  *55 

Sketches  by  E.  Burne-Jones  for  the  game  of  “ Cartoons  ” 

66,  67,  68,  69,  70 

Signature  of  E.  Burne-Jones  .......  72 

Sketch  in  pencil  by  William  De  Morgan,  “ At  the  Stores  ” . . 10 1 

Sketch  by  William  De  Morgan  entitled  “ The  Present  Shape  of 

the  Wellington  Statue”  . . . . . . .119 

Sketches  by  William  De  Morgan  in  a letter  to  Margaret  Burne- 

Jones  123,  124 

Sketch  by  William  De  Morgan  in  a letter  to  E.  Burne-Jones, 

“ Data  ” 130 

Pencil  sketch  in  a note-book  by  William  De  Morgan,  “ Une  De- 

mande  en  Mariage  ” . . . . . . . .131 

* Hanging  Day,”  a sketch  in  pencil  by  William  De  Morgan  . . 152 

M James  Lee’s  Wife,”  sketch  in  a note-book  by  William  De  Mor- 
gan after  reading  Robert  Browning  .....  307 

Two-legged  dragon  tail-piece,  by  William  De  Morgan  . . . 335 


CHAPTER  I 

ANCESTRY  AND  PARENTAGE 
1710-1839 

THE  immediate  ancestors  of  William  De  Morgan  are  described 
as  Anglo-Indians,  although  they  were  of  French  descent. 
Unfortunately  Colonel  De  Morgan,  his  grandfather,  sent  all  the 
family  documents  on  board  a ship  bound  for  England,  called  the 
Pondicherry , which  went  to  the  bottom ; and  among  the  papers 
which  then  perished  were  some  of  great  interest  dating  prior  to 
the  period  when  the  Edict  of  Nantes  forced  the  Huguenot  De 
Morgans  to  fly  from  their  native  country.  The  publication  of 
Mrs.  Penny’s  history  of  Fort  St.  George  recalled  to  William  De 
Morgan  a fact  which  he  had  then  forgotten,  namely  that  his 
great-great-grandfather,  John  De  Morgan,  was  a native-born 
Frenchman  who  married  a French  wife,  and  that  this  man's  son 
Augustus,  by  birth  a Frenchman,  married  a Dane  ! ‘ However/ 

was  William’s  comment,  ‘ we  are  English  enough  now  ! ’ 

There  are  many  Celtic  names  still  to  be  found  with  the  French 
prefix  in  Brittany  and  Normandy  ; but  the  practice  of  inscribing 
the  ‘ De  ’ with  a capital  letter  has  become  distinctive  of  this 
particular  branch  of  the  De  Morgan  family.  An  apparently 
apocryphal  story  runs  that  William’s  father,  the  celebrated 
mathematician,  Professor  De  Morgan,  declared  emphatically  that 
he  was  an  Englishman,  and  that  if  there  was,  unluckily,  a foreign 
prefix  attached  to  his  name,  it  should  be  treated  as  part  of  the 
surname.  On  one  occasion  Sir  John  Herschel,  writing  to  him, 
apologized  for  enclosing  a letter  in  which  the  correspondent 
referred  to  him  as  ‘ the  well-known  de  Morgorgon,’  to  which  the 
Professor  replied  : — 

‘ As  to  the  little  dees,  and  Morgorgon,  it  is  not  the  first  time  ! — My 
old  friend  Farish  (the  Professor’s  son)  could  not  call  me  anything  else  ! — 
It  went  against  his  conscience  to  the  day  of  his  death.  “ But  why  is  the 
gentleman  not  called  de  Morgorgon  ? ” — I am  constantly  tempted  to  make 
a mistake  in  one  Greek  name  because  in  the  second-hand  book  lists  it 
always  comes  after  mine.  Look  in  any  book-list  of  a miscellaneous 
character,  and  you  will  see  the  following  : — 

De  Moivre 
De  Morgan 
De  Mosthenes.’ 

21 


22 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


The  record  of  the  paternal  forefathers  of  William  De  Morgan, 
however,  as  far  as  this  can  now  be  traced,  shows  them  to  have 
been  possessed  of  war-like  propensities  rather  than  any  inclination 
towards  literature  or  art.  John  De  Morgan,  previously  referred 
to,  presumably  impoverished  by  the  misfortunes  of  his  family,  is 
supposed  to  have  followed  a practice  much  resorted  to  at  that 
date  by  men  of  birth  and  education,  great  numbers  of  whom 
entered  the  service  of  the  East  India  Company  as  private  soldiers 
in  order  to  secure  what  was  otherwise  almost  impossible  of 
attainment — a passage  out  in  the  Company's  ships ; their 
subsequent  objective  being  to  gain  a Commission  by  passing 
through  the  ranks.  John  is  said  to  have  dropped  the  De,  which 
his  son  afterwards  revived,  and  landing  in  India  July  n,  1710, 
from  on  board  the  Bouverie,  he  became  Sergeant  in  the  garrison 
of  Fort  St.  George.  In  1715  he  was  made  Ensign  for  his  bravery 
in  action,  and  later  he  became  Governor  of  Forts  St.  David  and 
Ajengo,  occasionally  acting  in  the  same  capacity  at  Fort  St. 
George.  When  he  retired  in  1748,  he  was  the  first  military  man 
to  be  granted  a pension  for  long  and  distinguished  service  ; and 
he  died,  a fine  old  veteran,  in  1760,  his  burial  taking  place  in 
Publicat,  where  his  tomb,  with  its  Latin  epitaph,  may  be  seen  in 
the  quaint  Dutch  cemetery. 

While  still  an  Ensign,  John  De  Morgan  had  married  twice, 
both  wives  being  French  women,  but  only  by  the  second,  Mrs. 
Turbeville,1  did  he  have  issue,  a family  of  five  daughters  and 
four  sons. 

The  former  were  perhaps  remarkable  for  the  fact  that  they  all 
married,  the  eldest  three  times,  and  three  out  of  the  remaining 
four  twice  ; so  that  innumerable  descendants  soon  existed  of  the 
veteran,  John  De  Morgan,  many  of  whom  likewise  gave  their 
services  to  promote  the  welfare  of  the  British  Empire  in  India. 
Of  his  sons,  however,  only  one  survived  him,  Augustus,  bom  in 
1739,  who  became  an  officer  in  the  Artillery  and  married  Christina, 
the  Danish  lady  before  mentioned,  a daughter  of  the  Rev.  Conrade 
Huttemann. 

This  young  pair  were  foredoomed  to  tragedy.  Christina  died 
in  1774,  and,  three  months  after,  her  infant  son  was  buried  in  the 
same  grave  in  a lonely  fort  at  Gan  jam.  Four  years  later,  her 
husband,  then  aged  thirty-nine,  with  two  other  officers,  was 
blown  up  in  a battery  at  the  taking  of  Pondicherry,  a name  which 
seemed  of  ill-omen  to  his  family. 

1 The  name,  according  to  the  laxity  in  spelling  of  those  days,  is  entered 
variously  as  Turville  and  Tivill  in  the  records.  John  Tivill  was  * Chief  ’ 
of  Masulipatam,  our  first  settlement  on  the  coast  of  India  ; but  property 
belonging  to  the  Tubervilles,  was  left  in  the  charge  of  St.  Mary’s  Vestry, 
and  Mrs.  John  De  Morgan’s  grandson  claimed  this  property  as  heir  at 
law,  and  made  good  his  claim. 


ANCESTRY  AND  PARENTAGE 


23 

A curious  story  has  been  told  in  connexion  with  Captain  De 
Morgan’s  death.  It  is  said  that,  on  the  morning  of  the  fatal  day, 
he  distinctly  foretold  that  he  and  his  two  companions  would 
perish  in  the  engagement  which  was  about  to  take  place.  Further, 
so  convinced  was  he  of  the  truth  of  his  prediction,  that  he  made 
his  will  which,  in  confirmation  of  the  tale,  bears  the  date  of  his 
decease.  This  story  has  been  cited  as  a remarkable  instance  of 
the  fulfilment  of  a presentiment,  but  a little  investigation  robs  it 
of  its  uncanny  element.  The  fact  was  that  Captain  De  Morgan, 
a clever  and  observant  officer,  had  noted  that  the  battery  which 
he  was  to  command  was  unduly  exposed  owing  to  its  faulty  con- 
struction. He  represented  this  to  the  engineer  officers  and  to  the 
Commander-in-Chief  without  avail ; the  engineers  denied  the 
truth  of  his  statement  and  the  Commander  sided  with  them.  So 
Captain  De  Morgan  went  bravely  to  his  death,  aware  that  the 
engagement  must  end  fatally  for  himself  and  his  two  companions 
who  were  posted  with  him,  and  in  the  disaster  which  occurred 
his  head  was  severed  from  his  body  by  a cannon  which  bore  the 
euphonious  name  of  ‘ Sweet-lips.’  But  it  was  left  to  his  grandson, 
many  years  later,  to  remark  what  was  actually  the  curious  aspect 
of  the  story — that  a gallant  soldier  constantly  exposed  to  death, 
did  not  consider  any  danger  save  a flaw  in  engineering  to  be  a 
sufficient  reason  for  making  his  will ! 

Of  the  three  sons  of  that  ill-starred  couple — the  Frenchman 
Augustus  and  his  Danish  wife — two  lived  to  man’s  estate.  Both 
entered  the  army ; George  Augustus,  the  elder,  who  was  in  the 
Madras  Cavalry,  took  part  in  an  action  against  Tippoo’s  troops  in 
1792,  and  disappeared.  His  body  was  never  found,  but  nothing 
was  ever  heard  of  him  subsequently.  The  other  surviving  son, 
John,  born  in  1772,  became  an  officer  in  the  22nd  Madras  Infantry. 

This  later  John,  afterwards  Colonel  De  Morgan,  while  still  a 
lieutenant,  married  in  1798,  in  Colombo,  Elizabeth  Dodson,  one 
of  the  eleven  children  and  nine  daughters  of  John  Dodson  of  the 
Custom  House,  London,  and  granddaughter  of  James  Dodson, 
F.R.S.,  a noted  mathematician  of  his  day,  author  of  the  Anti- 
Logarithm's  Canon. 

The  untoward  fate,  however,  which  at  this  date  dogged  the 
footsteps  of  the  De  Morgans,  pursued  John  and  Elizabeth.  Of 
their  seven  children  the  two  eldest  when  quite  young  were  dis- 
patched to  England,  in  June,  1804,  on  board  the  Prince  of  Wales , 
an  East  Indiaman.  The  ship  was  caught  in  a storm  and  wrecked 
off  the  Cape,  and  the  two  boys  presumably  perished  ; but  no 
conclusive  proof  of  their  death  was  ever  obtained,  any  more  than 
had  been  the  case  with  their  uncle,  George  Augustus ; and  the 
uncertainty  of  their  fate  always  preyed  on  the  mind  of  their  un- 
happy mother  and  of  the  father,  who  was  so  soon  to  follow  them. 

It  was  two  years  after  this  tragic  event,  on  June  27,  1806, 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


24 

that  Augustus,  the  fifth  child  of  this  couple,  and  the  future 
celebrated  mathematician,  was  born  at  Madura,  in  the  Madras 
Presidency.  His  father  had  held  Staff  appointments  at  several 
stations  in  India,  and  at  the  time  when  his  wife  was  expecting 
the  birth  of  this  son,  he  chose  Madura  in  preference  to  Vellore  on 
account  of  its  superior  quietness.  This  choice  proved  fortunate 
for  himself,  as  the  native  troops  of  the  battalion  of  his  regiment, 
which  was  at  Vellore,  mutinied,  and  in  the  terrible  outbreak 
which  followed,  Colonel  Fanshawe,  who  commanded  it  in  his 
place,  was  murdered  with  several  other  English  officers. 

Even  in  the  comparative  peace  of  Madura,  night  after  night 
Colonel  De  Morgan  would  creep  stealthily  out  of  bed  to  listen  to 
the  conversation  of  the  Sepoys  in  order  to  learn  if  a like  fate 
threatened  himself  and  his  helpless  wife  and  children.  In  con- 
sequence of  the  continued  unrest  in  India,  when  Augustus  was 
seven  months  old,  his  father  determined  no  longer  to  risk  the 
danger  of  a residence  there  for  those  he  loved,  and  returned  to 
England  with  his  wife,  two  small  daughters,  and  his  infant  son. 
On  this  decision  primarily  hinged  the  fact  that  the  long  military 
record  of  his  family  was  broken,  and  that  Augustus,  and  in  due 
course  the  latter’s  son,  William  De  Morgan,  did  not  follow  the 
profession  to  which  all  their  predecessors  and  most  of  their  con- 
temporary relations  belonged,  but  became  instead  peaceful 
civilians. 

After  settling  his  family  in  England — first  at  Worcester,  later 
in  Devonshire,  and  finally  at  Taunton,  Somersetshire — Colonel 
De  Morgan  twice  re-visited  India.  On  the  last  occasion  he  went 
to  take  command  of  a battalion  at  Quinton,  but  two  years  after- 
wards, in  1816,  he  was  ordered  home  on  account  of  ill-health, 
and  a brief  record  notes  that  ‘he  died  at  sea  on  board  the 
Company’s  ship  Larkins  two  days  af+er  passing  the  Cape  ’ — not 
far  from  the  locality  where,  twelve  years  previously,  his  two 
eldest  sons  had  presumably  perished.  A rigid  Evangelical  in 
tenets  and  practice — a heritage,  doubtless,  from  his  Huguenot 
ancestry — Colonel  De  Morgan  was  known  to  his  fellow  officers 
by  the  nickname  of  ‘ Bible  John,’  and  in  a review  which  appeared 
shortly  after  his  death  he  was  described  as  the  ‘ friend  of  Chris- 
tianity in  India.  ’ In  connexion  with  this  phrase,  a curious  incident 
occurred  forty  years  afterwards,  to  which  we  shall  refer  later. 

Elizabeth  De  Morgan,  left  with  a young  family  of  four  surviving 
children,  appears  to  have  brought  them  up  strictly,  but  well.  To 
Augustus,  her  eldest  living  son,  she  was  devoted,  and  describes 
him  as  a quiet,  thoughtful  boy,  never  so  well  pleased  as  when  he 
could  get  her  to  listen  to  his  reading  and  explanations,  ‘ always 
speculating  on  things  that  nobody  else  thought  of,  and  asking  her 
questions  far  beyond  her  power  to  answer  ’ — characteristics 
which  were  inherited,  in  turn,  by  his  own  children. 


ANCESTRY  AND  PARENTAGE 


The  boy,  however,  suffered  under  one  great  affliction.  Al 
birth  he  had  lost  the  sight  of  his  right  eye,  owing  to  the  com- 
plaint known  as  ‘ sore  eye  ' in  India,  and  this  proving  a handicap 
to  his  taking  part  in  active  games,  doubtless  enhanced  his  natural 
love  of  study.  He  likewise  exhibited  great  musical  talent ; even 
as  a small  child  so  sensitive  was  his  ear,  that  a discordant  note 
sounded  upon  the  piano  would  make  him  start  and  shiver  as  il 
in  pain  ; and  he  early  learnt  to  play  upon  the  flute  most  ex- 
quisitely. But,  for  a time,  none  seem  to  have  suspected  the 
existence  of  that  other  inheritance  which  was  to  make  him 
celebrated,  neither,  apparently,  might  it  have  been  looked  upon 
with  unqualified  approval  by  his  relations.  His  wife  relates  : — 

‘ From  his  mother  he  inherited  his  musical  talent,  and  probably  his 
mathematical  power,  for  she  was  the  granddaughter  of  James  Dodson,  a 
distinguished  mathematician,  the  friend  of  Demoivre,  and  of  most  of  the 
men  of  science  of  his  time,  and  an  early  F.R.S.  But  he  was  Mathematical 
Master  at  Christ’s  Hospital,  and  some  of  his  descendants  seem  to  have 
thought  this  a blot  on  the  scutcheon,  for  his  great-grandson  has  left  on 
record  the  impression  he  had  of  his  ancestor.  When  quite  a boy  he 
asked  one  of  his  aunts  “who  James  Dodson  was  ? ” and  received  for  answer 
“ We  never  cry  stinking  fish  ! ” so  he  was  afraid  to  ask  any  more  questions, 
but  settled  that,  somehow  or  other,  James  Dodson  was  the  “ stinking 
fish  of  his  family,”  and  he  had  to  wait  a few  years  to  find  out  that  his 
great-grandfather  was  the  only  one  of  his  immediate  ancestors  whose 
name  would  be  held  deserving  of  record.’ 

The  first  suspicion  of  Augustus  having  inherited  the  osten- 
sibly reprehensible  proclivity  of  this  maternal  forbear  was 
due  to  a mere  chance.  An  old  friend  of  his  family,  Mr.  Hugh 
Standert,  of  Taunton,  noticed  one  day  that  the  boy  was  very  busy 
making  a neat  figure  with  ruler  and  compasses,  and  finding  that 
the  essence  of  the  proposition  which  was  being  evolved  was 
supposed  to  lie  in  its  accurate  geometrical  drawing,  he  asked  the 
little  lad  a few  pertinent  questions  respecting  it.  Augustus 
replied  that  he  was  drawing  mathematics . ‘ That's  not  mathema- 

tics ! 1 said  his  friend.  ‘ Come,  and  I will  show  you  what  is.’ 
‘ So/  relates  his  wife,  ‘ the  lines  and  angles  were  rubbed  out,  and 
the  future  mathematician,  greatly  surprised  by  finding  that  he 
had  missed  the  aim  of  Euclid,  was  soon  intent  on  the  first  demon- 
stration he  ever  knew  the  meaning  of.  I do  not  think  that  Mr. 
Standert  was  instrumental  in  further  bringing  out  the  latent 
power ; but  its  owner  had  become  in  some  degree  aware  of  the 
mine  of  wealth  that  only  required  working  . . . and  from  that 
time  his  great  delight  was  to  work  out  questions  which  were  often 
as  much  his  own  as  their  solution/ 

In  this  event  one  recognizes  the  origin  of  an  incident  in  one 
of  his  son’s  novels  to  which  we  shall  refer  in  due  course  Mean- 
while it  is  strange  to  relate  that,  although  Augustus  soon  ‘ read 
Mgebra  like  a novel/  and  * picked  out  equations  on  the  School 


26 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


pew  instead  of  listening  to  the  sermon  on  Sunday/  the  existence 
of  any  abnormal  mathematical  talent  remained  unsuspected  bj 
those  who  taught  him. 

In  due  course  he  went  to  Cambridge,  where,  being  of  a sociable 
disposition,  he  soon  became  extremely  popular.  His  flute  proved 
an  unfailing  source  of  pleasure  to  his  many  friends  who,  we  are 
told,  quickly  learnt  to  love  him  * for  his  genial  kindness,  unwilling- 
ness to  find  fault,  and  quiet  love  of  fun/  At  every  turn  one 
recognizes  in  him  the  characteristics  afterwards  conspicuous  in 
his  eldest  son — the  quaint  humour,  the  habit  of  quiet  observa- 
tion, the  love  of  analysis  and  tortuous  reasoning,  of  intricate 
problems  and  half-facetious  solutions  in  which  he  seems  almosl 
making  mock  of  his  own  questioning ; above  all,  his  complete 
indifference  to  the  world’s  opinion  combined  with  an  unvarying 
benevolence  of  outlook  which  involved  a kindly  view  of  al] 
humanity. 

As  to  his  peculiarities,  his  contemporaries  remarked  4 his 
habit  of  reading  through  a great  part  of  the  night,  and  in  conse- 
quence getting  up  very  late  the  next  day,  so  that  his  fellow- 
collegians  coming  home  from  a wine-party  at  four  in  the  morning 
might  find  him  just  going  to  bed/  Nor  were  these  excursions 
into  literature  necessarily  of  a serious  nature.  In  view  of  after- 
events it  is  interesting  to  note,  ‘ his  insatiable  appetite  for  novel 
reading,  always  a great  relaxation  in  his  leisure  time,  and  doubt- 
less a useful  rest  to  an  over-active  brain  in  the  case  of  one  who  did 
not  care  for  riding  or  boating.  Let  it  be  good  or  bad  from  a 
literary  point  of  view,  almost  any  woik  of  fiction  was  welcome, 
provided  it  had  plenty  of  incident  and  dialogue,  and  was  not 
over-sentimental.  ...  He  soon  exhausted  the  stores  of  the 
circulating  library  in  Cambridge/  In  short,  Augustus  himself 
relates  : ‘ I did  with  Trinity  College  Library  what  I afterwards 
did  with  my  own — I foraged  for  relaxation.  I read  an  enormous 
amount  of  fiction — all  I could  get  hold  of,  so  my  amusement  was 
not  all  philosophical ! ’ 

At  length  came  the  question  of  choosing  a profession. 
Augustus  was  offered  a cadetship,  but  his  defective  eyesight 
caused  his  mother  to  veto  this  ; and  his  conscientious  inability 
to  subscribe  to  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  debarred  him  from 
taking  Orders.  He  hesitated  between  Medicine  or  the  Bar, 
eventually  choosing  the  latter  on  his  mother’s  urgent  recom- 
mendation to  ‘ throw  physic  to  the  dogs/  Nevertheless  he  felt 
that  he  had  not  yet  found  his  true  place  in  the  world’s  workshop, 
and  ere  long  he  gladly  seized  upon  the  first  opportunity  of  escap- 
ing from  a profession  which  was  likewise  uncongenial  to  him. 

* About,  or  before,  the  year  1820,’  relates  his  wife,  ‘ some  liberal- 
minded  men,  after  long  pondering  on  the  disabilities  of  Jews  and  Dissenters 
n gaining  a good  education,  came  to  the  conclusion  that  as  the  doors  of 


ANCESTRY  AND  PARENTAGE 


27 

the  two  Universities  were  closed  against  them,  the  difficulty  could  besl 
be  met  by  establishing  a University  in  which  the  highest  Academical 
teaching  should  be  given  without  reference  to  religious  differences.  . . . 
The  establishment  of  University  College,  called  at  first  the  London  Univer- 
sity, promised  to  fulfil  the  hopes  of  all  friends  of  education,  and  was  hailed 
as  a forerunner  of  religious  freedom.’  Mr.  De  Morgan,  whose  activity 
did  much  to  bring  this  to  pass,  ‘ welcomed  the  opening  of  the  College 
(in  1826-7)  as  n°t  only  meeting  a great  want  of  the  time,  but  as  offering 
himself  a prospect  of  leaving  the  study  of  the  Law  which  he  did  not  like 
for  the  study  and  pursuit  of  Science.  When  the  time  came  he  sent  in 
his  name  as  candidate  for  the  Mathematical  Chair. 

* It  was  characteristic  that  while  the  momentous  decision  was  going 
forward  on  which  all  his  future  hinged,  the  candidate  picked  up  a novel 
which  was  lying  on  the  table  before  him  and  became  so  absorbed  in  its 
contents  that  he  forgot  all  beside.  The  book  in  question  was  Miss  Porter’s 
Field  of  the  Forty  Footsteps , and  the  scene  of  it  is  laid  in  the  memorable 
fields  which  formed  the  site  of  the  new  College  and  its  surroundings. 
Augustus  had  run  through  the  entire  volume  before  the  news  reached 
him  that,  out  of  thirty-two  candidates  he,  the  youngest,  had  been  elected 
to  the  coveted  post.’ 

Nevertheless,  in  thus  changing  his  profession  Augustus  acted 
in  opposition  alike  to  the  wishes  of  his  family,  and  to  those  of  his 
many  friends  who  had  predicted  a brilliant  career  for  him  at  the 
Bar,  and  who  regarded  his  present  decision  as  a regrettable 
sacrifice  on  his  part.  But  above  his  natural  inclination  for  the 
work  involved,  he  maintained  that  the  ‘ upholding  of  a high 
principle  was  a more  weighty  consideration  than  worldly  success 
or  affluence  ’ ; and  with  a cheerful  optimism  he  announced  his 
determination  to  ‘ keep  to  the  Sciences  so  long  as  they  will  feed 
me  ! * 


Before  this  date,  it  must  be  observed,  Augustus  De  Morgan 
had  been  recognized,  not  merely  as  a leading  mathematician,  but 
as  a rising  young  scientist  and  brilliant  logician.  It  was  in  this 
capacity  that  he  made  his  entry  among  the  circle  of  those  who 
visited  William  Frend,  likewise  a distinguished  mathematician, 
and  a man  whose  remarkable  personality  may  be  presumed  to 
have  largely  influenced  that  of  his  descendants,  so  that  we  must 
pause  a moment  to  glance  at  his  antecedents. 

William  Frend  came  of  a family  whose  ancestors  had  been 
seated  at  Waltham  for  many  generations,  and  whose  pedigree, 
with  interesting  ramifications,  dates  back  to  the  early  fifteenth 
century.  His  father,  George,  however,  was  a younger  son,  and 
in  those  days  it  was  the  fashion  to  differentiate  considerably 
between  the  upbringing  of  the  elder  and  the  younger  members 
of  a family — to  spare  no  pains  in  the  education  of  the  heir,  who 
was  instructed  in  all  the  polite  arts  which  might  enable  him  to 
figure  effectively  in  the  great  world,  while  his  brothers  often 
received  a homely  education  and  were  apprenticed  to  a trade. 


28 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


Thus  George  Frend  eventually  settled  in  Canterbury  in  the 
capacity  of  banker  and  wine-merchant,  being  subsequently  twice 
elected  Mayor  of  that  city.  But  he  was  a man  of  high  intellectual 
gifts  who  was  soon  recognized  by  his  contemporaries  as  a scholai 
and  a thinker ; while  so  little  was  he  infected  with  the  spirit  ol 
commerce  that,  when  he  believed  a certain  duty  on  wine  to  be 
unjust,  he  broke  open  his  casks  and  let  the  contents  run  along 
the  streets  of  Canterbury. 

Nevertheless,  George  Frend  at  first  destined  his  son  for  a 
mercantile  profession,  and  on  the  lad  leaving  school  sent  him  to  a 
firm  in  Quebec  with  this  object.  The  experiment  did  not  last 
long ; the  War  of  Independence  broke  out,  the  youth  of  sixteen 
was  pressed  into  the  Service,  and  such  was  his  bravery  and  gallant 
bearing  that  it  was  desired  to  retain  him  in  the  army ; but  he 
preferred  the  life  of  a scholar,  and  journeying  back  to  England 
begged  his  father  to  allow  him  to  enter  the  Ministry.  In  1776,  at 
the  age  of  eighteen,  he  therefore  entered  Christ’s  College,  Cam- 
bridge, where,  for  some  time,  Paley  was  his  tutor.  His  subse- 
quent career  was  as  brilliant  as  it  was  stormy.  On  taking  his 
degree  in  1780,  he  moved  to  Jesus  College,  where  he  became 
Fellow  and  Tutor.  He  likewise  received  an  offer  to  proceed  to 
St.  Petersburg  as  tutor  to  the  future  Czar  Alexander,  but  he 
declined  this  lucrative  post,  which  was  afterwards  filled  by  La 
Harpe.  Instead,  relates  his  granddaughter,  ' he  entered  the 
Church  in  obedience  to  the  dictates  of  conscience,  though  from 
the  same  cause  he  felt  constrained  to  sever  his  connexion  with  it 
later  on.  He  held  his  incumbency  for  four  years,  during  which 
time  his  religious  opinions  underwent  so  great  a change  that  he 
found  it  to  be  his  duty  to  separate  himself  from  the  Church  at 
whatever  risk  to  his  own  prospects  and  the  friendship  of  those  he 
left  behind.’ 

William  Frend  soon  paid  the  penalty  of  an  honest  expression 
of  his  views,  and  was  expelled  from  his  post  of  College  Tutor  for 
his  so-called  heterodox  opinions.  Subsequently  he  became  an 
Actuary,  one  of  the  first  of  that  calling,  and  nine  years  before  the 
battle  of  Waterloo  he  began  doing  actuarial  work  for  the  Rock 
Insurance  Company.  He  was  near  fifty  when  he  married  Sarah 
Blackburne,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Francis  Blackburne,  Rector  of 
Brignall,  Yorkshire,  a lady  whose  antecedents  deserve  more  than 
the  passing  notice  which  can  here  be  accorded  to  them.  Although 
a daughter  of  a clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  her  tradi- 
tions in  many  ways  resembled  those  of  her  husband.  Her 
grandfather  was  the  famous  Archdeacon  Blackburne  who  had 
issued  a publication  advocating  a more  simple  pledge  at  ordina- 
tion, and  who  personally  refused  all  further  preferment  on  the 
grounds  that  his  conscience  forbade  him  to  subscribe  again.  He 
was  of  the  same  family  as  that  romantic  personality,  Lancelot 


ANCESTRY  AND  PARENTAGE  29 

Blackburne,  the  buccaneer  Archbishop  of  York,  who  is  said  to 
have  ‘ gained  more  hearts  than  souls  ’ ; 1 and  also  of  Alice 
Thornton,  daughter  of  Christopher  Wandersworth,  Lord  Deputy 
of  Ireland,  in  1640,  whose  autobiography,  published  by  the 
Surtees  Society,  forms  one  of  the  most  curious  and  interesting 
documents  descriptive  of  the  troubled  times  in  which  she  lived. 

What,  however,  is  of  greater  interest  to  our  present  purpose 
to  note  is  that  Sarah  Blackburne,  although  never  a professional 
artist,  has  left  work  which  shows  her  to  have  been  possessed  of 
remarkable  artistic  genius  ; and  presumably  from  her  her  grand- 
son that-was-to-be  inherited  his  powers  of  draughtsmanship. 

At  the  date  when  Augustus  De  Morgan  first  made  the  acquain- 
tance of  William  Frend  and  his  family,  the  Actuary  was  living  in 
a fine  old  house  adjacent  to  fields  which  extended  beyond  King’s 
Cross.  This  dwelling,  at  one  time  the  home  of  the  gentle  and 
pedantic  Dr.  Isaac  Watts,  had  also,  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
been  the  residence  of  Defoe  ; and  in  a large  oak-panelled  room 
there  was  a secret  doorway  and  staircase  by  means  of  which  its 
once-unquiet  occupant  used  to  escape  from  his  political  persecu- 
tors. During  more  peaceful  days,  in  happy  discussion  under  the 
magnificent  trees  in  the  lovely  old-world  garden,  Augustus  De 
Morgan  first  learnt  the  value  of  a subsequently  treasured  friend- 
ship. Between  himself  and  the  Actuary,  though  separated  in 
years  by  half  a century,  there  soon  sprang  up  a strong  bond  of 
union.  Not  only  were  both  keen  scientists  and  eager  mathema- 
ticians, but  both  were  men  of  profound  religious  convictions  who 
had  sacrificed  worldly  success  to  their  love  of  truth.  Both  had 
battled  courageously  against  the  system  of  Religious  Tests  in 
matters  of  education  and  preferment.  Both  were  men  of 
penetrating  intellect,  fearless  honesty  and  flawless  sincerity. 
Throughout  his  life  Augustus  De  Morgan  always  spoke  of  William 
Frend  as  * the  noblest  man  he  had  ever  known  ’ — an  opinion 
which  seems  to  have  been  shared  by  all  who  came  under  the  spell 
of  the  fine  old  philosopher. 

Long  since  have  vanished  the  majestic  trees  beneath  which 
the  two  scientists  then  paced ; ugly  modem  buildings  have  re- 
placed that  hospitable  house  and  spacious  garden,  and  the  name 
Defoe  Street  alone  marks  the  transfigured  locality  where  the  home 
of  William  Frend  once  stood.  But  to  the  end  of  his  days  Augustus 
De  Morgan  was  destined  to  cherish  a tender  recollection  of  the 

1 In  an  Edition  of  Byron’s  work,  1815,  given  by  Lady  Byron  to  Willianc 
Frend,  there  is  an  interesting  account  of  the  Archbishop  in  a note  to  Th\» 
Corsair . He  bequeathed  his  sword,  a fine  Andrea  Ferrara,  to  Archdeacois 
Blackburne,  the  great-great-grandfather  of  William  De  Morgan,  and  it 
was  recently  presented  to  the  Archbishop’s  old  College,  Christ  Church, 
Oxford,  by  Miss  Constance  Phillott,  William  De  Morgan’s  first  cousin, 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


3o 

happy  hours  spent  there,  for  the  dawning  of  romance  soon  lured 
his  steps  again  and  again  to  the  spot.  It  is  not  known  at  what 
date  there  first  sprang  up  an  attachment  between  the  young 
Professor  and  Sophia,  the  eldest  daughter  of  William  Frend  ; 
but  the  story  of  their  first  meeting  is  best  told  in  her  own  words  : — 

* Mr.  De  Morgan  first  came  to  our  house  with  Mr.  Stratford  [who,  like 
Mr.  Frend,  was  a member  of  the  old  Mathematical  and  subsequently  of 
the  Astronomical  Society].  He  then  looked  so  much  older  than  he  was 
that  we  were  surprised  by  hearing  his  real  age — just  twenty -one.  I was 
nineteen.  We  soon  found  out  that  this  “ rising  man  ” of  whom  great 
things  were  expected  in  Science,  and  who  had  evidently  read  so  much, 
could  rival  us  in  love  of  fun,  fairy-tales,  and  ghost-stories,  and  even  showed 
me  a new  figure  in  Cat’s  Cradle.  He  was  in  person  very  like  what  he  was 
in  later  life,  but  paler,  probably  from  the  effects  of  his  recent  Cambridge 
reading.  His  hair  was  very  thick  and  curly.’ 

So  congenial  a companion  proved  doubly  welcome  when  he 
was  discovered  to  be  possessed  of  musical  talent,  and  happy 
evenings  followed  when  the  visitor  played  on  his  magic  flute, 
accompanied  by  Sophia’s  younger  sister — a circumstance  calcu- 
lated to  arouse  certain  pangs  of  jealousy  on  the  part  of  the  elder 
girl  who,  not  being  a pianist,  was  relegated  to  the  role  of  listener. 
Miss  Frend,  however,  as  befitted  her  heritage,  was  possessed  of 
remarkable  character  and  keen  intellect.  Her  education  and 
upbringing  had  been  wholly  unconventional ; from  her  father 
she  had  learnt  Hebrew,  Greek  and  Latin,  while  she  had  developed 
a deep  interest  in  antiquarian  and  theological  problems.  From 
her  earliest  childhood,  too,  she  had  mixed  with  the  noted  people 
of  her  day  who  all  flocked  to  her  father’s  house,  forming  a strange 
and  heterogeneous  gathering  of  varied  professions  and  denomina- 
tions. Taylor,  the  Platonist,  and  Henry  Crabb  Robinson,  there 
conversed  with  Sir  Francis  Burdett  and  Lord  Brougham.  Cole- 
ridge, Campbell,  Browning,  and  Wordsworth  were  frequent 
visitors,  as  were  both  Mrs.  Barbauld  and  Mary  Somerville. 
George  Dyer  proved  a never-failing  source  of  amusement  since, 
as  young  De  Morgan  soon  pointed  out,  he  ‘ was  a man  in  whom 
a want  of  humour  amounted  to  a positive  endowment/  Lamb 
wrote  poems  in  Sophia’s  album  describing  her  as  his  ‘lovely 
Frend  ’ ; and  Blake,  ‘ a man  with  a brown  coat  and  uncommonly 
bright  eyes,’  Sophia  first  met  when  walking  out  with  her  father 
in  the  Strand  when  she  was  ten  years  old. 

‘ If  there  is  a queer  fish  in  the  world,’  remarked  a conceited 
Dissenting  Minister  sarcastically  one  day  before  an  admiring 
circle  of  his  parishioners,  ‘ he  is  certain  to  find  his  way  to  the 
house  of  William  Frend.’ 

‘ Excuse  me,  sir,’  rejoined  Sophia  demurely,  ‘ but  I do  not 
remember  our  having  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  there  ! ’ 

But  amidst  the  assemblage  of  noted  people  of  both  sexes  with 


ANCESTRY  AND  PARENTAGE 


3i 

whom  she  associated,  the  greatest  friend  of  Sophia’s  girlhood  was 
Lady  Noel  Byron,  the  widow  of  the  poet,  a woman  whose  rare 
personality  aroused  among  those  who  knew  her  intimately  some- 
thing akin  to  worship,  while  she  remains  for  others  a tragic 
figure  in  the  glare  of  the  publicity  to  which  her  husband’s  stormy 
genius  exposed  her.  At  that  date  there  was  a craze  for  phreno- 
logy, and  Sophia,  in  company  with  Lady  Byron,  studied  the  new 
science  with  great  seriousness.  ‘ The  question  of  inheritance 
which  lies  at  the  root  of  the  whole,’  she  wrote  many  years  after, 
‘ had  not  been  entertained  and  the  mysterious  problem,  the 
relation  of  brain  to  character,  was  very  roughly  handled  in  those 
days,  and  does  not  fare  much  better  now.’ 

A Mr.  Holmes  was  then  giving  lectures  on  the  subject  in 
London,  and  Lady  Byron  and  Sophia  attended  his  classes ; 
whence  arose  an  incident  which  Sophia  relates  in  her  own  witty 
manner. 

‘ Mr.  Holmes,’  she  writes,  * took  casts  and  had  a very  good 
collection  of  these,  as  well  as  of  the  skulls  of  criminals,  idiots,  and 
other  abnormalities.  The  collection  was  lodged  in  a house  in 
Bedford  Street,  Bedford  Square.  When  I first  saw  them  they 
were  used  by  Mr.  Holmes  to  illustrate  his  phrenological  lectures. 
After  one  of  these  lectures,  at  which  my  father,  my  sisters  and  I 
were  present,  the  lecturer  pointed  out  to  us  some  heads  which  he 
thought  worth  observation,  as  bearing  evidence  of  the  agreement 
of  character  with  form.  In  going  round  the  room,  I descried 
a cast  which  I knew.  It  was  that  of  our  friend,  Mr.  De  Morgan, 
and  I had  seen  it  before.  . . . The  head  was  on  the  top  tier  of  a 
high  stand  among  a choice  company  of  idiots,  hydrocephalic 
people,  and  the  like.  I asked  the  lecturer  what  was  the  special 
characteristic  of  that  individual,  and  why  he  had  that  place. 

* “ Ah,”  said  Mr.  Holmes,  shaking  his  head  and  looking  sorrowful 
as  over  a “ bootless  bene,”  “ that  is  the  head  of  a man  who 
will  never  do  anything.  There  is  every  kind  of  capacity  in  this 
head.”  He  took  down  the  cast  and  pointed  to  its  proportions. 
“ Wonderful  endowments  in  science,  in  literature,  in  every  way  ; 
but  they  are  all  lost.” 

* " Why  so  ? ” 

‘ “ There  is  no  power  to  make  them  active.  The  poor  weak 
temperament  cannot  sustain  any  continued  effort,  so  the  fine 
organization  is  quite  useless.” 

* “ What  a lamentable  case  ! ” 

* “ Aye,  indeed.  If  this  individual  had  a temperament  equal  to 
his  organization,  he  would  have  been  a none-such.” 

‘ I need  not  say,’  concludes  Sophia  triumphantly,  ‘ that  the 
prediction  was  not  fulfilled  ! ’ Nor  did  it  alarm  her,  for  in  1837, 
just  ten  years  after  she  had  first  met  him,  she  became  the  wife  of 
the  man  for  whom  such  a doleful  future  had  been  foretold. 


32 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


After  a short  tour  in  Normandy,  the  young  couple  settled 
down  at  69  (afterwards  35)  Gower  Street ; and  there  the  bride 
threw  herself  with  avidity  into  the  varied  interests  of  a busy  life. 
It  is  impossible  here  to  touch  on  the  numerous  schemes  for  the 
betterment  of  mankind  which  she  originated  or  promoted  during 
the  years  that  followed.  She  worked  hard  and  brought  all  the 
force  of  her  fine  intellect  to  bear  upon  methods  of  improving  the 
condition  of  workhouses,  asylums  and  prisons,  in  which  latter 
movement  she  aided  Elizabeth  Fry.  She  initiated  a Society  for 
providing  playgrounds  for  the  children  of  the  slums.  She  had 
also  a large  share  in  the  formation  of  Bedford  College  in  1849 ; 
and,  always  an  advocate  for  the  higher  education  of  women,  she 
soon  persuaded  her  husband  to  overcome  his  masculine  prejudices 
on  this  subject  and  to  champion  the  cause  of  Woman’s  Suffrage. 
He  did  so  with  a facetious  protest. 

‘ We  derive  evidence  of  interesting  facts  from  the  study  of 
etymology,’  he  wrote  teasingly  to  her  on  one  occasion.  ‘ For 
instance,  the  superiority  of  the  male  over  the  female  sex  is  clearly 
implied  from  the  fact  that  when  we  overcome  a difficulty  we  say 
we  master  it,  but  if  we  fail  we  say  we  miss  it  ! ’ 

To  the  many  noted  acquaintances  of  Sophia’s  girlhood  were 
now  perforce  added  her  husband’s  circle  of  friends,  which  com- 
prised most  of  the  prominent  scientists  of  the  day.  Still  among 
the  Professor’s  papers  are  delightful  letters  from  Sir  John  Herschel, 
John  Stuart  Mill,  Sir  Frederick  Pollock,  Sir  William  Hamilton — 
who  quarrelled  and  made  it  up  again — and  innumerable  well- 
known  men  of  that  generation  who  sought  his  companionship 
and  were  his  indefatigable  correspondents.  William  De  Morgan 
in  after-life  used  to  speak  with  amused  recollection  of  ‘ the  circle- 
squarem  and  perpetual-motionalists  who  used  to  buzz  round  my 
father  like  bluebottle  flies ! ’ The  Professor’s  wit,  his  per- 
spicacity, the  wide  range  of  his  sympathy,  the  complete  absence 
of  anything  pedantic  in  mind  or  manner,  drew  men  of  every 
calibre  to  him  with  magnetic  attraction.  * He  was,’  we  are  told, 

* a man  of  great  simplicity  and  vivacity  of  character,  and  entirely 
free  from  self-interest.  He  had  a love  of  puns  and  of  all  ingenious 
puzzles  and  paradoxes  which  make  some  of  his  books,  especially 
his  Budget  of  Paradoxes,1  as  amusing  as  they  are  learned  ’ ; and 
he  had,  above  all,  ‘ The  excess  of  a lofty  sense  of  honour.’  2 
Besides  being  a mathematician,  Augustus  De  Morgan  was  an 
astronomer,  and  held  the  office  of  Secretary  of  the  Royal  Astrono- 
mical Society  for  two  periods  amounting  to  fourteen  years.  The 
Presidency  was  offered  to  him,  but  in  declining  it,  he  urged  that 
it  should  be  offered  to  Sir  John  Herschel,  remarking  in  character- 
istic fashion  : ‘ The  President  must  be  a man  of  brass,  a micro- 

1 Reprinted  from  the  Athenceum  after  his  death  in  1872. 

8 Dictionary  of  National  Biography . 


ANCESTRY  AND  PARENTAGE  33 

meter-monger,  a telescope-twiddler,  a star-stringer,  a planet- 
poker,  and  a nebula-nabber.  ’ 

From  the  outset  of  his  career,  the  Professor  exhibited  a 
* thorough  contempt  for  sham  knowledge  and  low  aims  in  study/ 
and  in  consequence  he  hated  all  competitive  examinations.  One 
day  he  was  discovered  scribbling  down  the  following  : — 

Question.  What  is  knowledge  ? 

Answer.  A thing  to  be  examined  in. 

Question.  What  is  the  instrument  of  knowledge  ? 

Answer.  A good  grinding  tutor. 

Question.  What  is  the  end  of  knowledge  ? 

Answer.  A place  in  the  Civil  Service,  the  Army,  the  Navy,  etc.  (as 
the  case  may  be). 

Question.  What  must  those  do  who  would  show  knowledge  ? 

Answer.  Get  up  subjects  and  write  them  out. 

Question.  What  is  getting  up  a subject  ? 

Answer.  Learning  to  write  it  out. 

Question.  What  is  writing  out  a subject  ? 

Answer.  Showing  that  you  have  got  it  up. 

And  so  on,  ad  infinitum. 

His  definition  of  an  educated  man  was  * a man  who  knows 
something  of  everything  and  everything  of  something/  i.e.  a 
man  who  is  not  absolutely  ignorant  upon  any  subject,  but  at  the 
same  time  is  entirely  master  of  one  subject. 

Of  his  ready  sense  of  fun  the  following  story  is  typical.  At 
one  time,  when  there  was  a great  commotion  about  the  frequency 
of  body-snatching  for  purposes  of  dissection,  some  one  in  his 
presence  read  out  a paragraph  from  the  daily  paper  relating  to  it. 
Without  any  preparation,  Professor  De  Morgan,  looking  up  from 
his  book,  observed  : — 

* Should  a body  want  a body 
Anatomy  to  teach, 

Should  a body  snatch  a body 
Need  a body  peach  ? ’ 

One  characteristic,  however,  shared  by  both  husband  and 
wife  from  the  early  days  of  their  marriage,  deserves  special 
comment  because  of  its  bearing  upon  future  events.  Mention 
has  been  made  before  of  the  avidity  with  which  the  Professor 
devoured  all  works  of  fiction ; and  after  his  marriage  he  was 
anxious  that  his  wife  should  share  his  enjoyment.  ‘ He  liked 
reading  to  me/  she  relates,  ‘ when  he  could  get  anything  to  please 
us  both,  and  in  this  way  I heard  several  of  Dickens’s  novels  from 
the  beginning.  They  came  out  in  monthly  parts,  and  he  would 
say,  “ We  shall  have  a Pickwick  (or  whatever  it  might  be)  to- 
morrow ” ; and  on  the  first  day  of  the  publication  we  had  read  and 
commented  on  it.’ 

In  her  husband’s  Biography,  Mrs.  De  Morgan  recounts  how, 
three  years  after  their  marriage,  a difference  arose  between 

f! 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


34 

Augustus  and  herself  respecting  the  exact  character  intended  to  be 
represented  in  one  of  the  illustrations  in  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

* The  dispute  ran  so  high  that  it  could  only  be  settled  by  an  appeal 
to  head-quarters.  Accordingly  Professor  De  Morgan  sent  a letter 
to  the  author  from  “ a lady  and  gentleman  who,  being  husband 
and  wife,  seldom  agree  about  anything,  though  they  are  of  one 
mind  in  admiration  of  the  novel/’  and  begged  for  a solution  of  the 
vexed  question.  Dickens  entered  with  zest  into  the  spirit  of  the 
inquiry,  and  in  an  amusing  answer  declared  the  husband’s  opinion 
to  be  the  correct  one  ; “So,”  relates  Sophia,  “ he  was  triumphant 
and  I crestfallen  ! ” ’ 

It  was  not,  however,  till  many  years  later  that  Professor 
De  Morgan  first  made  acquaintance  with  the  author  of  the  books 
which  had  given  him  so  much  enjoyment.  He  met  Dickens  at 
Broadstairs,  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Knight,  the  publisher,  and 
Sophia,  who  was  not  present  at  the  interview,  merely  records 
with  regrettable  brevity  : ‘ The  meeting  gave  pleasure  to  both.’ 
Fancy  dwells  more  lingeringly  on  that  happy  encounter  between 
the  immortal  novelist  and  the  brilliant  Professor  who,  little  as  he 
then  suspected  it,  was  the  father  of  a future  novelist  whom  a later 
generation  would  compare  to  the  man  before  him. 

There  was  another  subject  on  which  Augustus  and  his  wife, 
if  not  precisely  in  accord  in  their  conclusions,  at  least  exhibited 
a common  interest  which  undoubtedly  influenced  their  children. 
Indeed,  so  prominent  a part  did  it  play  in  the  home-life  of  the  entire 
family  that  any  attempt  to  reproduce  the  atmosphere  of  that  home 
and  ignore  this  element  in  it  would  be  singularly  incomplete. 

Augustus  was  accredited  with  being  the  first  man  of  science 
In  modem  times  who  regarded  and  studied  the  phenomena  of 
spiritualism,  clairvoyance  and  telepathy  with  seriousness. 
His  name  is  often  quoted  in  this  connexion  by  controversialists 
of  to-day ; but  while  his  wife  was  a whole-hearted  convert  to  a 
belief  in  the  significance  of  the  phenomena  she  investigated,  it  is 
doubtful  whether  he  did  more  than  weigh  the  problem  with  the 
nicety  of  an  analytical  mind ; and  the  attitude  adopted  by  him 
in  regard  to  such  analysis  may  be  defined  more  explicitly  since  it 
was,  in  the  main,  that  assumed  in  after-life  by  his  son  William. 

That  certain  psychical  occurrences  are  difficult  of  explanation 
:>n  any  known  materialistic  ground  the  Professor  accepted  as 
evident ; but  what  inference  to  deduct  therefrom,  or  what  their 
bearing,  if  any,  upon  the  question  of  survival  and  continuity  of 
individuality  after  death,  remained,  he  felt,  undetermined.  ‘ He 
was  convinced  of  the  reality  of  their  occurrence,’  states  Mrs.  De 
Morgan,  ‘ though  he  had  not  satisfied  himself  as  to  their  cause.’ 
In  brief,  he  was  studying  forces  inexplicable,  so  far,  to  science, 
ind  he  did  not  on  that  account  deny  their  actuality  ; but  neither 
lid  he  lose  sight  of  the  boundless  credulity  of  human  nature,  nor 


ANCESTRY  AND  PARENTAGE 


35 

of  the  fact  that  the  supernatural  of  to-day  becomes,  to-morrow, 
the  superstition  of  yesterday.  His  views,  however,  are  best 
summed  up  in  his  inimitable  preface  to  a book  on  this  subject 
published  anonymously  by  his  wife,  From  Matter  to  Spirit , by 
A.B.  and  C.D.  In  this  he  weighs  and  analyses  the  intricacies  of 
the  problem  with  a subtlety  at  once  humorous  and  profound,  even 
if,  ostensibly,  with  the  bias  of  a Counsel  for  the  Defence  in  his 
desire  to  please  the  true  author  of  the  book,  whose  work,  though 
of  interest,  does  not  attain  to  the  level  of  his  prelude  to  it. 

We  shall  see  later  how  William  De  Morgan  affirmed  that  his 
father  invariably  balanced  with  care  the  scales  between  the  two 
eventualities,  possibility  and  probability.  ‘ We  thought,’  observed 
the  Professor  in  a controversy  with  Farady  upon  this  subject, 

‘ that  mature  minds  were  rather  inclined  to  believe  that  a know- 
ledge of  the  limits  of  possibility  and  impossibility  was  only  the 
mirage  which  constantly  recedes  as  we  approach.’  * A true 
ghost  story  ! ’ exclaimed  a chemist  once  to  him,  indignantly. 
‘ Why,  a ghost,  sir,  is  a physical  impossibility  ! ’ ‘ Exactly,’ 

returned  the  Professor  dryly,  ‘ and  for  that  very  reason  a psychical 
possibility  ! ’ In  brief,  to  the  wise,  all  things  are  possible  and 
few  things  proven  ; while  the  end  of  all  knowledge  is  the  know- 
ledge of  our  ignorance. 

One  of  many  curious  incidents,  however,  which,  occurring 
under  his  own  observation,  made  a deep  impression  on  him,  was 
as  follows : At  a seance  one  day  in  1858,  when  Mrs.  Hayden,  a 
well-known  American  medium  was  officiating,  he  was  told  that 
the  spirit  of  his  father,  Colonel  De  Morgan,  was  present.  Anxious 
to  put  the  identity  of  the  ‘ spirit  ’ to  a test  which  should  be 
known  to  no  one  present  but  himself  and  the  dead  man,  he 
suddenly  recalled  the  phrase  which  had  been  used  in  reference 
to  his  father  forty  years  before  in  the  review  previously  referred 
to,  viz.,  ‘ the  friend  of  Christianity  in  India.’  He  therefore  asked 
the  supposed  spirit  whether  he  could  remember  a certain  review 
published  soon  after  Colonel  De  Morgan’s  death,  and  could  give 
the  initials  of  a title  in  five  words,  which  had  therein  been 
applied  to  the  deceased. 

The  medium  and  the  rest  of  the  company  present  were  seated 
at  the  table  while  the  Professor  sat  apart  where  they  could  not 
see  him,  holding  a pencil  with  which  he  pointed  to  each  letter  of 
the  alphabet  in  turn.  With  the  words  of  the  required  phrase 
m his  mind,  he  fully  expected  a rap  to  be  given  by  the  table  when 
he  arrived  at  the  letter  F.  But  his  pencil  passed  the  crucial 
letter,  and  by  the  time  he  came  to  K he  had  decided  that  the  test 
was  a failure.  Some  one  present,  however,  called  out,  ‘ You  have 
passed  it ; I heard  a rap  long  ago.’  He  therefore  began  again  ; 
and  distinct  raps  came  first  at  C and  then  at  D.  He  was  then 
more  firmly  convinced  that  the  test  had  failed,  and  consoled 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


36 

himself  humorously  with  the  reflection  that,  after  all,  it  was 
rather  hard  to  expect  a spirit  to  remember  a passage  in  an  obscure 
review  forty  years  before  ! Suddenly,  however,  it  flashed  across 
him  that  the  raps  had  indicated  correctly  the  letters  which  were  the 
commencement  of  the  sentence  that  contained  the  title.  * I see 
what  you  are  at/  he  remarked  gravely,  ‘pray  go  on.'  The  raps 
then  proceeded,  and  in  turn  again  emphasized  clearly  the  fol- 
lowing letters : ‘ C.D.M.T.F.O.C.I.I/  These  were  the  initial 
letters  of  the  words  forming  the  complete  sentence,  which  ran 
' Colonel  De  Morgan , the  friend  of  Christianity  in  India / ‘ I was 

now  satisfied/  he  said,  when  referring  to  the  incident  afterwards, 
‘ that  Something  was  reading  thoughts  known  only  to  myself, 
and  which  could  not  have  been  detected  by  my  method  of  point- 
ing to  the  alphabet,  even  supposing  that  could  have  been  seen/  1 

Whether  the  Professor’s  own  brain  could,  by  a species  of 
telepathy,  have  conveyed  his  thoughts  to  those  present  on  this 
occasion  and  unconsciously  have  suggested  their  action  is  a 
question  which  may  be  debated  by  the  curious ; meanwhile  it 
should  be  added  that  Sophia  De  Morgan,  on  her  part,  had  been 
largely  influenced  in  her  attitude  towards  matters  occult  by  a 
personal  experience  during  her  girlhood.  An  elderly  friend  and 
neighbour  of  hers  having  promised  to  visit  her  after  his  death, 
every  night  on  going  to  rest,  for  more  than  a week  after  his 
demise,  she  was  made  conscious  of  his  presence  by  various  uncanny 
tokens  ; till,  in  desperation,  she  changed  her  room,  and  fortunately 
the  unenterprising  ghost  did  not  follow  her  to  her  new  apartment. 

Other  curious  occurrences  which  took  place  in  her  own  and 
her  husband’s  family  subsequently  strengthened  her  convictions, 
and  one  incident  carried  especial  weight.  In  middle  age,  Sophia 
was  photographed  holding  the  hand  of  a medium,  and  on  the 
photograph  being  developed,  behind  her  chair  appeared  a shadowy 
form  which  she  recognized  as  that  of  a dead  daughter  who  had 
been  very  dear  to  her.  But  the  facility  of  faking  an  appearance 
of  this  sort  on  the  part  of  a photographer,  aided  by  the  predis- 
position of  a bereaved  mind  to  fashion  a likeness  where  none 
exists,  are  too  well  known  to  require  emphasis,  and  her  husband 
remained  more  interested  in  instances  of  the  alleged  appearance 
of  the  dead  to  the  dying,  many  curious  tales  of  which  he  collected 
and  considered;  always  with  the  recognition  that  a scientific 
explanation  of  the  supposed  phenomena  might  be  forthcoming. 
‘ For  aught  I know,’  he  wrote  on  one  occasion  when  questioned 
about  the  exact  lines  of  his  investigation,  ‘ a body  may  act  where 
it  is  not,  it  may  leave  consequences  behind  it.  An  annihilated 

1 Professor  De  Morgan  refers  to  this  incident  in  his  preface  to  From 
Matter  to  Spirit,  but,  since  that  work  was  anonymous,  he  omits  names  and 
many  particulars  which  are  given  here  and  serve  to  render  the  story  more 
curious. 


ANCESTRY  AND  PARENTAGE  37 

star,  which  is  seen  by  light  emitted  during  its  existence,  may  be 
said,  for  ought  we  can  tell,  to  act  where  it  is  not.’ 

Nevertheless,  such  investigations  as  the  husband  and  wife 
pursued  added  an  interest  to  their  lives,  already  so  full  of  mental 
and  physical  activity.  Although  her  studies  in  the  occult 
modified  Mrs.  De  Morgan’s  religious  views  so  that  these  became 
more  orthodox  in  creed,  they  left  unimpaired  her  broadness  of 
outlook ; while,  so  subtle  was  the  Professor’s  exposition  of  this 
and  other  matters  of  controversy,  that  to  this  day  he  is  quoted 
with  happy  confidence  as  a Rationalist  by  the  Rationalists,  as  a 
Spiritualist  by  the  Spiritualists,  and  respectively  as  a Unitarian 
or  a free-thinker  by  those  who  like  to  acclaim  him  as  akin  to 
themselves  in  thought.  Yet  in  truth  he  was  none  of  these. 
Perhaps  the  nearest  definition  of  his  attitude  towards  religion  is 
summed  up  in  his  own  description  of  himself  and  his  family  as 
* Christians,  unattached,’  implying  that  while  he  accepted  the 
tenets  of  Christianity,  he  declined  to  be  relegated  to  any  one 
particular  denomination. 

Consistently,  with  the  flight  of  time  the  prolonged  devotion 
of  his  services  to  the  London  University  remained  singularly 
disinterested,  as  with  his  brilliant  attainments  and  influential 
friends  he  could  have  readily  secured  a far  more  remunerative 
post  at  either  of  the  older  Universities.  Still  more,  as  the  years 
passed  and  he  became  the  father  of  seven  children,  the  induce- 
ment to  consider  material  advantages  in  preference  to  the  quixotic 
support  of  an  abstract  principle  might  well  have  overpowered 
finer  considerations.  But  all  the  profundities  of  Science  were 
powerless  to  destroy  the  eternal  Child  in  the  heart  of  the  Professor. 
The  simplicity  and  the  sincerity  of  his  nature  underwent  no  change. 
He  remained  the  same  unworldly,  genial  spirit,  a veritable  Sir 
Galahad  in  the  cause  of  Truth,  tilting  wittily  at  the  foibles  and  pre- 
judices of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  intolerant  only  of  intolerance. 

But  enough  has  been  said  to  show  the  atmosphere  in  which 
William  De  Morgan  first  saw  daylight — an  atmosphere  of  merry 
wit  and  exquisite  music  ; of  keen  logic  and  piercing  thought ; ol 
scientific  research  and — maybe — a leaning  towards  credulity  ; oi 
an  equally  happy  appreciation  of  hard  fact  and  picturesque  fiction. 

Nearly  seventy  years  after  the  period  with  which  we  have 
been  dealing,  when  this  younger  De  Morgan  had  become  famous 
as  a novelist,  a reviewer,  writing  of  his  early  life,  remarked  : — 

‘ When  you  consider  the  stimulating  influences  that  were  thus  around 
him,  forming  his  character  and  cultivating  his  tastes  and  his  temperament 
throughout  his  most  plastic  and  susceptible  years,  and  calculate  the  unique 
inheritance  that  must  have  descended  to  him  from  such  an  ancestry,  yor 
begin  to  recognize  that  Mr.  William  De  Morgan  is  no  phenomenon,  but  a 
natural  evolution.  His  Muse  is  Mnemosyne,  goddess  of  Memory,  mothei 
of  all  the  Muses.’ 


CHAPTER  II 


A NURSERY  JOURNAL 
1842 

DESPITE  her  many  and  varied  interests  during  the  early 
years  of  her  married  life  Mrs.  De  Morgan’s  chief  thought 
and  attention  were  centred  on  her  young  family,  whom  she 
tended,  educated  and  chastised  with  an  over-conscientiousness 
which  would  astonish  a modern  parent.  Still  extant,  in  her  fine 
pointed  writing,  is  a nursery  Journal  which  she  kept  with  care 
at  her  first  home  in  Gower  Street  at  a date  when  only  three 
of  her  family  of  seven  had  as  yet  come  into  existence  ; and 
this  record  of  daily  peccadilloes,  instructions,  and  corrections, 
conveys  a singularly  graphic  picture  of  the  little  world  hedged 
round  by  her  mother-love,  while  it  is  illustrative  of  the  tendency 
of  her  generation  to  attach  undue  significance  to  what  would 
now  be  considered  trivialities. 

For  instance,  on  one  occasion  we  find  her  sorely  exercised 
in  mind,  and  devoting  many  pages  of  analysis  to  the  fact  that 
her  daughter  Alice,  aged  3^  years,  had  made  an  unimportant 
statement  which  was  not  strictly  accurate.  The  discovery 
that  an  imaginative,  quick-witted  baby  had,  obviously  in  all 
innocence,  confused  fact  and  fancy,  distressed  her  grievously, 
and  is  treated  by  her  with  a gravity  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  event.  Nevertheless,  both  in  liveliness  and  minuteness  of 
detail,  her  writing  resembles  that  of  Maria  Edgeworth,  and 
suggests  whence  came  the  remarkable  gift  of  realistic  description 
developed  by  her  son. 

At  the  date  when  this  Journal  was  written,  her  family,  as 
she  says,  consists  of — 

Elizabeth  Alice  De  Morgan,  bom  June  4,  1838. 

William  Frend  De  Morgan,  born  November  16,  1839. 

And  George  Campbell  De  Morgan,  born  October  16,  1841. 
Unfortunately  little  Alice,  ‘ a sweet  and  clever,  but  very 
excitable  child,’  being  then  at  an  age  when  her  intelligence 
was  naturally  in  advance  of  that  of  her  baby  brother,  ‘ a dear, 
gentle  child,’  perforce  comes  in  for  a larger  share  of  her  mother’s 
description,  and  no  volume  of  a later  date  has  survived  to 

38 


* A NURSERY  JOURNAL  39 

record  the  quaint,  wise  questionings  of  little  William  when  first 
his  active  brain  began  to  grapple  with  the  mysteries  of  existence, 
Nevertheless  Mrs.  De  Morgan  presents  us  with  a vivid  picture 
of  a smiling,  lovable  baby-boy,  determined,  and  already  full 
of  individuality,  but  without  the  diablerie  of  his  highly-strung 
little  sister  who,  into  her  nursery  days,  seemed  to  pack  the 
emotions  and  experiences  of  a life-time.  Certain  touches, 
however,  amusingly  depict  the  man  into  which  that  small  babe 
was  destined  to  grow — the  spacious  forehead — the  portent 
of  which  his  mother  discusses  with  interest,  so  abnormal  was 
it  as  almost  to  throw  the  rest  of  his  face  out  of  proportion  ; 
the  attractive  drawl  of  his  speech,  which  never  left  him  in  later 
years ; the  retentive  memory,  of  which,  even  then,  his  little' 
brain  showed  remarkable  signs ; and  above  all,  the  sunny, 
happy  temperament,  over  which  the  tiny  shadows  in  nursery- 
land,  like  the  big  shadows  in  after-life,  flitted  like  clouds  above 
a placid  pool. 

Still  absorbed  in  her  studies  of  phrenology,  Mrs.  De  Morgan 
observed  the  formation  of  her  children’s  heads  with  anxious 
attention.  Under  the  date  January , 1842,  she  writes  : — 

* I find  it  impossible  to  keep  a regular  Journal,  so  this  book  begins  on 
the  beginning  of  the  year  with  notices  of  my  dear  little  children.  If  I 
were  able  to  do  it  correctly,  I should  give  the  sizes  and  measurements  oi 
each  head,  but  I feel  able  only  to  give  a slight  description  of  each.  . . . 
William’s  head  is  better  balanced  than  Alice’s  [and  she  appends  a crude 
illustration  to  give  the  relative  shape  of  each].  . . . Willie  is  now  two 
years  and  two  months.  The  largest  organs  in  my  darling  boy’s  head 
are  : — 

Benevolence 

Firmness 

Adhesiveness 

Conscientiousness 

Self-esteem 

Ideality 

The  reasoning  faculties 
Language 

The  next  in  size  at  present  are  : — 

Order 

Melody 

Caution 

Hope 

Love  of  approbation 
The  drawing  faculties 
In  contradistinction  : — 

Veneration  is  moderate 
Combativeness  „ moderate 
Sensitiveness  „ moderate. 

To  those  who  knew  William  De  Morgan  there  could  not  bt 
a more  accurate  description  of  his  characteristics  seventy  years 
later  than  that  compiled  by  his  mother  from  his  phrenology 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


40 

in  babyhood.  Even  the  more  negative  qualities  are  curiously 
accurate  in  their  limitation.  Throughout  his  life  his  capacity 
for  veneration  was  held  in  check  by  his  propensity  for  analysis ; 
his  combativeness — save  in  some  merry  duel  of  wits — was  nil ; 
and  his  sensitiveness — by  which  it  is  evident  that  Mrs.  De  Morgan 
meant  what  in  her  day  was  more  often  termed  sensibility — 
a tendency  to  be  unduly  affected  by  the  trivialities  of  existence 
— this  too  was  counteracted  by  his  singularly  happy  and  equable 
temperament. 

Simple  as  are  the  incidents  which  Sophia  De  Morgan  relates 
— as  must  needs  be  when  their  subject  was  but  a babe  of  a couple 
of  summers — they  are  not  without  significance  to  those  inter- 
ested in  the  eternal  truism  that  the  Child  is  father  of  the  Man. 
The  first  peculiarity  which  she  remarks  in  the  small  human 
creature  who  had  so  recently  learnt  to  speak  is  as  follows  : — 

* William  has  his  sister’s  quick  ear  for  rhythm.  Like  her  he  can  repeat 
a great  number  of  verses,  particularly  his  favourites  from  Wordsworth 
which  I have  read  to  him,  and  he  sometimes  gives  a poetical  effusion 
extempore.  His  first  rhymes  were  : — 

“ Billy  sees  Clown 
A-tumbling  down  ! ” 

‘ This  evening  we  were  at  the  piano,  and  I sang  them  a little  nursery 
song,  the  words  of  which  are  : — 

“ Oh,  Willy  dear,  do  you  love  me 
As  I love  you,  my  sweet  baby  ? 

Oh,  Willy  dear,  do  you  love  me. 

Do  you  love  me  ? ” 

* Without  thinking  much  of  the  words  I had  gone  on  singing,  and  at 
the  last  question  I heard  very  energetically  from  my  little  boy : “ Yes, 
Billy  will  love  Mama  ! ” Alice,  who  was  on  the  other  side,  looked  up 
and  trying  to  screw  her  face  into  composure  said : “ Mama,  I can’t 
help  my  face  coming  into  tears.  That  seems  such  a sad  song  (here  the 
tears  appeared).  Now  I will  try  to  get  my  face  out  of  tears  / ” * 

Later  she  again  remarks  : — 

* Willy’s  ear  for  rhythm  is  very  quick.  To-day  Alice  began,  " Mama, 
I love  you  ! ” 

1 “ Yes,  my  dear,  I know  you  do — ‘ You  love  me  and  I love  you.’  ” 

* Willy,  seated  upon  the  hearth-rug,  solemnly  remarked  to  himself, — 

“ When  I am  old  and  feeble  too 
Will  you  love  me  as  I love  you 

Presumably  this  was  a quotation  from  the  little  song  which 
Mrs.  De  Morgan  before  mentioned,  but  its  recital  seems  to 
indicate  unusual  powers  of  observation  and  memory  in  a baby 
such  as  the  writer’s  small  son  was  at  this  date.  On  another 
occasion  his  mother  mentions  : — 

* To-day  I was  drawing  a house  for  Alice  who  asked  me  to  put  a bow- 
window  in.  When  it  was  drawn,  Willy  observed  : — 


4i 


A NURSERY  JOURNAL 

M A large  bow-window  in  the  room 
Nearly  rested  on  the  ground, 

With  honey-suckle  all  in  bloom 

Shedding  its  perfume  all  around.**  • 

Moreover,  besides  a retentive  memory,  Willie  showed  keen 
powers  of  observation  at  this  early  age  of  two.  His  mother 
relates : — 

He  has  taken  a great  fancy  to  the  prints  of  Bewick’s  Birds.  From 
four  to  five  hours  a day  the  little  fellow  looks  through  the  book,  and  can 
now  tell  the  name  of  almost  every  bird.  Sometimes  he  names  us  ah 
after  the  birds  according  to  his  estimate  of  our  worth. 

‘ You’re  a Silky  Starling,  Mama  ! ’ 

‘ And  what  are  you,  Willie  ? ’ 

‘ Oh,  I ’ — humbly — ‘ will  be  a three-toed  Woodpecker 

But  despite  his  proclivity  for  poetry  and  Natural  History, 
William — or,  as  he  firmly  designated  himself,  Bill — seems  to 
have  inherited  something  of  the  martial  ardour  of  his  ancestors  : — 

' Willie  is  bent  on  being  a “ sozier  **  [soldier],*  remarks  his  mother; 
* however,  I do  not  fear  that  this  fancy  will  last,  unless  there  is  a hollow 
behind  his  great  forehead.’ 

In  contrast  to  her  anxiety,  before  referred  to,  that  her 
children  as  soon  as  they  could  lisp  should  realize  the  enormity 
of  a lie,  Mrs.  De  Morgan  did  not  suppress  more  legitimate  flights 
of  imagination 

‘ When  I walked  out  with  the  children  one  day,’  she  relates,  * I induced 
Willie  to  walk  instead  of  being  carried,  by  pretending  that  we  were  people 
travelling  through  a strange  country  in  which  we  met  all  kinds  of  wild 
animals,  cats  were  panthers,  horses — lions,  and  dogs — tigers,  etc.  Janey 
[the  nurse]  told  me  that  yesterday  they  were  talking  so  loud  about  these 
beasts  that  a lady  stopped  in  amazement  and  looked  at  them.  Willie 
was  in  the  middle  of  some  history  of  a tiger  running  by  the  carriage  when 
Alice  exclaimed — “ Look,  Bill,  here’s  four  giants  riding  upon  them  and  ” 
— suddenly  observing  the  lady  who  was  looking  surprised- — “ there’s  a 
giantess  standing  by  ! ” 

‘ They  carry  out  the  “ make-believe  ” principle  so  far  that  they  some- 
times come  running  out  of  my  room  into  the  nursery  looking  quite  pale 
and  frightened.  When  asked  what  is  the  matter  it  is  sometimes  a “ peten  ” 
[pretence]  wolf  or  a “ peten  ” bear — occasionally  a peten  Guy  Pox  ; and 
once  when  Billy  was  looking  very  much  alarmed,  he  answered  our  inquiries 
by  saying,  “I’m  frightened  of  my  shadow  ! **  * 

Mrs.  De  Morgan  soon  found  that  her  children’s  imagination 
led  them  to  conclusions  entirely  unexpected  by  their  prosaic 
elders.  On  January  14  she  writes  : — 

‘ Alice  calls  the  feathery  white  clouds  “ the  juice  of  the  sky  ” because 
I had  told  her  they  were  wet.  She  called  the  fringe  I am  wearing  the 
'*  fibres  ” of  my  shawl.  And  she  calls  the  seeds  the  “ eggs  of  the  flowers.” 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


42 

This  morning  she  asked  me  if  the  dried  African  flowers  under  the  glass 
case  were  dead,  and  on  my  telling  her  they  were,  she  asked,  “ Can  flowers 
speak  when  they  are  alive  ? ” It  is  not  surprising  that  she  should  have 
made  this  mistake,  for  the  Cape  flowers  are  everlasting  and  look  like 
living  flowers,  therefore  Allie  might  easily  think  all  gathered  flowers  were 
dead.’ 

The  following  day  she  writes  : — 

* Alice  asked  me  what  my  grandmama’s  name  was.  I told  her  Black- 
burne. 

‘ “ Was  she  black  because  she  went  after  the  coals,  and  burn  because 
she  went  after  the  fire  ? ” 

* “ No  ! ” 

* “ Where  does  she  live  ? ” 

* “ She  is  not  here  now  ; she  went  away  before  you  were  made  ! ” 

f M Ah — that  was  because  I was  so  long  in  coming  ! ” * 

Poor  little  Alice,  however,  between  her  own  vivacious  tem- 
perament and  the  over-conscientiousness  of  her  mother,  was 
in  continual  trouble.  Small  crimes,  such  as  * wiggling  * in 
the  morning  when  her  nurse  brushed  her  hair,  refusing  to  obey 
without  knowing  the  precise  reason  why  she  was  expected 
to  do  so,  and  a little  innate  spirit  of  perverseness  brought  her 
into  sad  disaster.  Willie,  on  the  contrary,  with  his  almost 
unvarying  sweet  temper,  remained  naturally  good  : — 

‘ Dear  Willie,’  the  mother  relates,  ‘ has  once  been  carried  to  the  nursery 
door  for  some  small  act  of  disobedience,  but  when  he  got  so  far  he  roared — 
“ Bill  won’t  ’tay  ! Bill  will  be  dood  boy.  Mama!” — he  drawls  out  the 
last  syllable  in  an  odd  manner — Ma maw  ! ’ 

Only  once  she  relates  : — 

* Willie,  suffering  from  his  teeth,  was  a little  peevish  yesterday  when 
they  were  playing  together.  I said,  “You  don’t  mind  it,  do  you,  Allie, 
dear  ? ” 

‘ “ No,”  she  said  patronizingly.  “ It’s  his  teeth,  you  know.  He’s 
irribubble  ! ” 

‘ “ Willie  is  much  better,”  [she  adds,  a few  days  later].  “ He  has  just 
got  a little  gambroon  dress  and  cape,  trimmed  with  velvet  and  with  silver 
buttons  and  buckle.  This  looks  exceedingly  nice  and  neat ; and  Alice 
and  he  were  greatly  delighted  with  it.  I think  it  gave  her  as  much  pleasure 
to  go  to  the  drawer  and  look  at  Willie’s  new  dress  as  if  she  had  one  herself.”  ’ 

Nevertheless  William,  even  in  his  short  experience  of  life, 
had  already  realized  the  relative  values  of  good  and  evil.  He 
had  noticed  that  his  sister,  when  naughty,  was  placed  first 
in  the  corner  of  the  nursery,  and  if  that  was  not  efficacious, 
she  was  then  conducted  to  Mrs.  De  Morgan’s  dressing-room, 
where  she  was  left  till  solitude  and  tears  had  engendered  a 
penitential  frame  of  mind  and  restored  her  moral  equilibrium. 
On  William  being  reprimanded  one  day,  therefore,  and  warned 
that  he  must  ‘ be  good,’  it  was  observed  that  he  first  ran  volun- 


A NURSERY  JOURNAL  43 

tarily  intc  a corner  and  then  toddled  on  his  own  initiative  into 
his  mother’s  dressing-room,  whence  he  appeared  in  due  course 
dimpling  with  smiles  all  over  his  chubby  face.  Inquiries 
elicited  the  explanation.  He  had  seen  that  his  sister  went 
into  these  two  places  apparently  to  find  the  mysterious  quality 
known  as  her  “ goodness,”  and  on  being  told  that  he  was  defi- 
cient in  that  same  quality,  he  naturally  went  to  seek  for  it  in 
the  places  where  she  had  obviously  found  it.  As  an  instance 
of  tiith-healing  this  result  may  be  recommended  to  the 
curious  ! 

William,  nevertheless,  had  certain  clearly  defined  ideas 
on  the  subject  of  right  and  wrong.  His  mother  mentions  his 
vehement  protest  on  seeing  Punch  and  Judy  for  the  first  time. 
‘ Punch  ought  not  to  be  allowed  to  beat  Judy  ! ’ he  kept  exclaim- 
ing, terribly  upset  at  such  a perversion  of  justice  ; and  so  dis- 
tressed was  he  that  all  enjoyment  of  the  little  farce  was  impossible 
to  him. 

At  this  date  Willie  was  too  young  for  any  religious  instruc- 
tion, but  the  methods  by  which  Mrs.  De  Morgan  sought  to 
convey  to  her  children  some  conception  of  matters  theological 
is  illustrated  by  her  conversations  with  Alice — a child  of  aston- 
ishing precocity  and  intelligence. 

At  the  age  of  three-and-a-half  Alice  was  informed  by  her 
mother  that  there  was  a ‘ Good  Father  ’ whom  she  had  never 
seen  but  to  whom  she  owed  all  that  was  agreeable  in  her  little 
life ; and  thenceforward  she  prattled  glibly  about  ‘ my  Good 
Father  ’ in  contradistinction  to  ‘ my  real  Papa.’  She  was  also 
told  that  it  was  possible  to  talk  to  this  ‘ Good  Father  ’ and 
thank  Him  for  His  goodness,  although  she  must  not  to  dis- 
concerted that  no  audible  answer  was  received. 

Alice  thereupon  requested  to  be  lifted  upon  the  table  where 
she  could  see  the  sky  that  she  might  talk  more  readily  to  the 
Being  who  lived  beyond  it.  Her  mother  pointed  out  that  this 
attitude  was  not  suitable,  and  Alice  reluctantly  acquiesced  in 
the  decision  ; but  she  was  much  attracted  by  the  idea  of  address- 
ing this  unseen  Presence  and  used  daily  to  think  out  a list  of 
benefits  for  which  politely  to  thank  Him. 

In  May,  1842,  the  little  family  party  went  down  to  a country 
house  which  was  constantly  lent  to  them  by  the  friend  of  Mrs. 
De  Morgan’s  childhood,  Lady  Byron.  This  was  Fordhook, 
once  the  home  of  Henry  Fielding,  and  whence,  upon  a bright 
June  day  in  1754,  he  had  driven  away  on  the  vain  search  for 
health  which  ended  in  his  untimely  death.  It  was  a medium- 
sized house  1 surrounded  by  a beautiful  garden,  which  stood 
on  the  Uxbridge  Road,  a little  beyond  Acton,  and  nearly  opposite 

1 The  original  house  has  been  pulled  down,  and  a modern  one,  bearing 
the  same  name,  built  on  the  site. 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


44 

the  present  Ealing  Common  Station.  The  happiness  of  the 
children  at  this  transition  to  the  country  still  glows  afresh  in 
the  faded  pages  of  the  Journal,  and  still  between  its  leaves  is 
pressed  a pallid  flower  gathered  in  that  far-away  spring  in  Lady 
Byron’s  garden. 

The  day  on  which  they  started  they  had  first  the  excitement 
of  the  festivities  of  May  Day  and  its  Jacks-in-the-Green,  in 
reference  to  whom  Willie  announced  his  intention  of  being 
a sweep  when  he  grew  up,  and  Alice  decided  she  would  be  the 
next  best  thing — a sweep’s  wife.  Then  came  the  drive  to  their 
new  home  with  its  kaleidoscopic  revelation  of  varying  interests  ; 
next  the  wonderment  of  the  arrival  at  the  unknown  house 
with  the  lovely  pleasure  grounds — the  flowers,  the  ponies,  the 
cows  which,  in  turn,  engaged  their  attention.  Mrs.  De  Morgan 
relates  : — 

* In  their  prayers  to-night  they  had  so  much  to  thank  for — sweeps — 
drive  in  the  carriage — lovely  garden — flowers — birds — “ and  those  beautiful 
frogs  of  which  one  jumped  up  so,  and  one  stuck  out  its  leg  as  if  it  were  laugh- 
ing ! ” » 

But  Alice  had  a mind  far  too  active  and  analytical  to  accept 
theology  with  the  simple  faith  of  an  ordinary  child.  Her  mother 
has  jotted  down  various  conversations  on  the  subject  which 
show  unusual  thoughtfulness  in  such  a baby.  On  May  4 she 
writes  : — 

‘ Allie  was  thinking  over  her  old  difficulty  of  how  the  clouds  were 
made,  and,  pursuing  her  inquiries,  she  said  : — 

* “ Our  Good  Father  made  you  and  me  and  the  clouds — but  I want 
to  know  how  He  came  Himself — was  He  born  ? ” 

‘ “ No,  love.  He  was  not  born  like  us — but  I cannot  tell  you  how  He 
came.” 

* Alice.  “ Well,  if  He  made  us,  some  one  must  have  made  Him.  Was 
that  Another  Good  Father  ? and  who  made  that  Other  ? ” 

‘ M.  “You  see  it  is  of  no  use  for  us  to  try  to  find  out  how  He  came, 
because  if  we  were  to  say  another  Good  Father  made  Him,  and  another 
made  that  Other,  still  it  would  be  a puzzle  to  find  out  how  the  first  Good 
Father  came.” 

‘ A.  “ Yes — the  Other  of  All  ! ” 

‘ M.  “ Well  then,  you  will  believe  me  when  I tell  you  that  it  is  no 
use  to  ask — do  you  understand  ? ” 

* A.  “ Yes — but  I should  like  to  know  ! ” * 

A few  days  later  Mrs.  De  Morgan  relates  : — - 

* On  Alice  saying  her  prayers  this  evening  she  said — “ What  have  I 
to  say  to-night  ? — I don’t  know.” 

‘ “ You  have  always  something  to  thank  our  Good  Father  for.” 

* “ What  to-day  ? ” 

* “ Not  more  than  usual — unless  you  thank  Him  for  the  peaches.” 

* " Oh,  yes — Willy  and  I had  a peach,  and  He  made  it.” 

* “ Yes,  He  made  it  and  all  the  fruits  that  grow.” 


A NURSERY  JOURNAL  45 

* Alice.  “All  fruits  and  trees  and  men  and  women  and  children. 
Everything  but  Himself.  How  did  He  come  ? — I cannot  find  out  ! ” 

* M.  “No,  you  cannot — no  one  knows  how  He  came.” 

* Alice.  “ For,  you  see,  He  could  not  make  Himself  because  if  He 
made  Himself  He  must  have  had  arms  and  if  they  were  made  He  was 
made  before  He  made  Himself,  and  that  could  not  be,  you  know.” 

1 M.  “ No,  love,  we  cannot  understand  it  any  better  than  you 
can.” 

* Alice.  “ He  must  have  been  always,  yet  we  are  not  always  ; we  are 
born.  Is  it  not  odd  that  He  never  should  have  begun  ? ” * 

But  if  the  problem  of  the  First  Cause  perplexed  the  children, 
not  so  that  of  the  Personification  of  Evil.  There  was  a book 
Ht  Lady  Byron’s  which  contained  a portrait  of  the  Devil,  and 
Mrs.  De  Morgan  relates 

* Alice  had  been  very  much  smitten  with  this  figure  before,  and  had 
questioned  Mrs.  Stoker  [Lady  Byron’s  housekeeper],  who  evaded  the 
subject  ; but  Willy  said  to  me  to-night : — 

* “ What’s  this,  Ma — maw  ? Is  he  a Monkey,  or  is  he  a dog  ? ” 

* “ No — he’s  a pretence  thing — a sort  of  Guy  Fawkes.  (It  must  be 
observed  that  all  giants,  monsters  and  make-believes  go  under  the  generic 
name  of  Guy  Fawkes.) 

' Alice,  who  was  sitting  opposite,  drinking  her  supper,  looked  up  in- 
stantly, her  eyes  sparkling.  “ What  is  he.  Mama  ? Is  he  made  of 
wood  ? ” — she  came  round  to  me  very  quick. 

* “ Sometimes  wooden — sometimes  painted  ; you  know  those  picture 
figures  are  made  in  all  kinds  of  ways.” 

' “ Is  he  real  Guy  Faux — has  he  any  other  name  ? ” 

* “ Yes — he  is  not  called  * Guy  Faux.’  ” 

* “What  is  his  name,  then  ? ” said  Will. 

‘ “ Nick  ! ” 

* Here  they  both  laughed  excessively,  Willie  observing- — “ You  are 
funny,  Mr.  Nick  ! ” 

‘ Alice  asked  if  he  had  no  more  names.  She  seemed  to  covet  something 
more  of  the  same  kind. 

‘ “ Yes,”  I said,  “ those  who  think  it  a better  name  call  him 
Scratch ! ’ ’ 

‘ “ Nick  and  Scratch  ! ! Oh,  what  fun  ! Let’s  find  another  ! We 
must  tell  Janey  ! ” etc.,  etc. 

‘ Their  first  introduction  to  the  Gentleman  in  question  was  productive 
of  much  mirth  ! ’ 

A few  days  after  their  arrival  at  Fordhook  the  children 
were  given  a toy  wheelbarrow,  which  was  a great  source  of 
excitement  to  them.  Alice,  as  usual,  having  been  in  disgrace 
for  some  trifling  disobedience,  Willy  was  allowed  to  play  with 
it  first,  but  she  showed  no  animosity  at  this  decision,  indeed 
the  intense  affection  of  the  little  brother  and  sister  and  the 
unspeakable  distress  of  one  if  the  other  was  punished  affords 
some  of  the  prettiest  descriptions  in  the  book.  Nevertheless 
the  new  toy  at  one  moment  threatened  to  become  a stumbling- 
block. 


46 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


May  8. 

* Willy  quite  determined  to-day  to  wheel  his  wheelbarrow  in  at  the 
library  window.  In  vain  I said,  " Willie,  you  may  take  your  barrow 
anywhere  in  the  garden,  but  not  in  here.” 

‘ “ But  I may.” 

* " No,  indeed,  you  may  not.  You  must  do  as  you  are  told.  Take 
your  barrow  out  of  the  window,  my  boy.” 

‘ “ No — I will  be  a man  ; and  I am  taking  my  barrow  in  here.” 

* “ Then  I must  shut  you  and  your  wheelbarrow  up.  I think  you  had 
better  do  as  I tell  you.” 

‘ " Nor 

* " Yes.  Willie  say — * I will,’  and  do  as  he  is  told  ! ” 

* " I will ! — I am  taking  it  out  now  ! ” 

* And  out  it  went  ! 

* A few  minutes  afterwards  he  returned. 

* “ I am  good  now,  Ma-maw.  I am  Mr.  Walker  [the  gardener].” 

‘ “ What  is  Mr.  Walker  to  you,  Willy  ? ” 

* " He  is  my  ’squaintance  ! ” 

* " And  what  is  Mrs.  Stoker  ? ” 

* "My  friend.  I ’tuppose” — thoughtfully — "Lady  Byron  had  better 
be  my  wife  ! ” 

* " Very  well — I will  tell  her  ! ” responded  Mrs.  De  Morgan  imper- 
turbably.’ 

It  may  be  added  that  Lady  Byron  reciprocated  the  admira- 
tion which  she  had  evoked  ; and  long  years  afterwards,  when 
little  Bill  had  grown  to  be  an  old  man,  one  of  his  cherished 
possessions  was  still  a fragment  of  a letter  from  this,  his  first 
love,  to  his  mother  containing  an  apt  prophecy : 4 I am  certain 
your  little  boy  will,  in  the  years  to  come,  be  a remarkable  man 
among  men.’ 

Occasionally  Lady  Byron  drove  down  to  Fordhook  to  visit 
her  guests,  bringing  with  her  to  their  country  isolation  a supply 
of  books  and  the  latest  news  from  London.  4 I remember 
her  vividly,’  wrote  De  Morgan  half  a century  afterwards,  4 an 
almost  ethereally  delicate,  painfully  serious,  disconcertingly 
precise  lady.  The  word  stoical  associates  itself  in  my  mind 
with  Lady  Noel  Byron — not  implying  severity  or  grimness, 
but  the  tragedy  of  her  life  had  left  its  mark  upon  her.’  Never- 
theless Lady  Byron  was  gifted  with  a sense  of  humour,  and 
on  one  of  these  visits  she  related  graphically  to  Mrs.  De  Morgan 
how  Lady  Lytton  had  been  annoying  her  husband,  Sir  Bulwer 
Lytton,  by  sending  letters  to  him  at  his  club  addressed  to  4 Sir 
Liar  Lytton  ! ’ What,  however,  interested  the  younger  members 
of  the  family  more  keenly  was  that  on  these  excursions  their 
hostess  was  usually  accompanied  by  her  grandson  Ralph,  after- 
wards second  Earl  of  Lovelace,  who  was  four  months  older 
than  little  Willie,  and  ever  after  remained  his  lifelong  friend. 

Meanwhile  the  housekeeper  in  charge  at  Fordhook,  Mrs. 
Stoker,  was  not  regarded  by  Willie  in  such  a favourable  light 
as  was  his  projected  4 wife.’ 


A NURSERY  JOURNAL  47 

* A few  days  ago,’  writes  Mrs.  De  Morgan,  * Mrs.  Stoker  was  in  the 
dining-room  when  Willie  was  eating  his  breakfast. 

‘ Willie  cannot  bear  to  have  anyone  present  at  meals  who  is  not  eating, 
so,  to  give  her  a polite  hint,  he  sat  still  and  did  not  taste  his  food.  Janey 
asked  him  why  he  did  not  eat,  saying — “ Are  you  not  hungry,  Willie  ? ” 

‘ “ Ye-s.” 

* “ Then  why  do  you  not  eat  ? ” 

* He  only  replied  by  gravely  stirring  about  his  bread  and  milk,  and 
when  Janey  begged  him  to  eat  it  before  it  was  cold,  he  looked  at  Mrs. 
Stoker  saying — “ You  dine  when  Mama  dines  ! ” She  took  the  hint  and 
left  him. 

‘Another  day  at  breakfast,  she,  knowing  his  fancy,  said — “Willie, 
shall  I stay  with  you  ? ” (He  was  alone,  the  others  were  not  yet  come  to 
breakfast,  and  Mary  [the  second  nurse]  had  left  the  room  for  a minute.) 

* " Ye-s,”  replied  Willie,  “ you  may  stay  till  Mary  comes  back.” 

* When  Mary  returned,  Willie  said  politely  to  Mrs.  Stoker, — 

* “ Now  Mary  is  come.” 

Willy’s  superior  good  temper,  however,  was  a source  of 
pathetic  envy  to  his  restless,  vivacious,  little  sister. 

Alice.  * Mama,  I wish  I was  not  so  contrairy.’ 

M.  ‘ Well,  love,  you  will  teach  yourself  in  time  not  to  be  so.* 

Alice.  * Willy  is  good  always.’ 

M.  * Not  quite  always — but  on  the  whole  he  is  a dear  good  little 
boy.’ 

Alice.  * He  was  born  good — I wonder  why  I wasn’t  born  good  too 
It  was  wrong  in  our  Good  Father — He  ought  to  have  borned  me  good  too, 
ought  not  He  ? ’ 

M.  * No — I do  not  think  what  He  does  is  ever  wrong.  We  cannot 
always  tell  why  He  does  things  different  to  what  we  wish,  but  we  can 
know  that  if  you  had  been  born  quite  good,  you  would  not  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  conquering  your  naughtiness  and  of  pleasing  Him  that  way.’ 

Alice.  * Then  it  was  right  in  Him.  He  done  it  to  give  me  a job  /’ 

Long  years  afterwards  William  De  Morgan  used  to  probe 
back  with  interest  into  his  baby  recollection  of  Fordhook.  ‘ I 
wish  every  one  who  leaves  a house  would  seal  up  in  a bottle 
a short  account  of  their  experiences  there  and  bury  it  in  the 
foundations  ! ’ he  said  in  this  connexion.  ‘ What  an  enthrall- 
ing record  it  would  make  for  those  who  come  after  ! ’ 

The  Professor  was  seldom  able  to  accompany  his  family 
on  their  holidays,  but  his  charming  letters  to  his  children  have 
still  survived,  decorated  profusely  with  attractive  beasts, 
monsters  and  dragons — obviously  the  ancestors  of  the  bogies 
with  which  his  little  son  in  the  future  was  to  adorn  his  famous 
pottery. 

But  the  Professor’s  bogies  all  served  to  inculcate  the  moral 
precept  ‘ be  good,’  particularly  in  the  case  of  vivacious  little 
Alice,  for  as  the  years  passed  the  precocity  of  her  intelligence 
gave  some  anxiety  to  her  parents,  and  in  conversations  with 
her  father  she  displayed  a tendencv  to  such  close  metaphysical 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


48 

reasoning  that  he  held  it  imperative  to  check  the  workings  ol 
her  too-eager  brain. 


* My  eldest  little  girl,’  he  wrote  in  1847,  * gave  alarming  symptoms 
of  being  a prodigy,  but  I so  effectually  counteracted  them  that  her  mother 
began  in  her  turn  to  be  alarmed  when  she  was  between  six  and  seven  years 
old  lest  she  should  be  backward  in  her  learning.  She  is  now  between 
nine  and  ten,  and  frequently  puzzles  me  with  words  which  I am  to  make 
out  with  the  ivory  letters  which  have  been,  and  are,  a source  of  amusement 
to  us  all.  It  is  by  these  letters  that  they  have  all  learnt — boys  as  well 
as  girls — and  the  youngest  now  makes  a small  sentence  with  them  from 
her  book  when  she  has  a morning  lesson — which  is  not  every  day.  No 
spelling-book  has  been  used  ; and  I abominate  the  system  of  daily  tasks 
and  getting  so  many  words  to  spell  by  heart.  As  to  a grammar,  they 
shall  never  learn  ©ne,  nor  be  troubled  with  the  false  notions  it  contains.’ 

This  sentence  hints  at  the  system  of  education  pursued 
by  the  Professor  and  his  wife.  The  mental  training  of  their 
children,  in  small  matters  as  in  great,  was  as  unconventional 
as  the  moral  training  was  rigid  : they  held  that  the  minds  of 
the  young  must  be  allowed  full  elasticity,  their  manners  none. 
The  result  was  a curious  admixture  of  freedom  of  thought  and 
outlook  far  in  advance  of  the  date  at  which  they  lived,  com- 
bined with  notions  of  conduct  which  even  then  were  held  to 
be  unduly  strict  and  old-fashioned. 

But  little  Alice,  with  her  fearless  questioning  of  Life’s  many 
mysteries,  was  destined  all  too  early  to  learn  the  answer  to 
the  riddles  which  perplexed  her.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  a chill 
sufficed  to  develop  the  family  scourge — consumption ; and 
soon  all  that  was  left  to  recall  her  once-bright  personality  was 
the  photograph  before  referred  to  with  its  hint  of  a shadowy 
Presence — which  at  least  bespoke  an  abiding  hope  in  her  mother’s 
heart. 

George  Campbell,  too,  the  three-months-old  baby  of  the 
‘ Nursery  Journal  ’ — ‘ with  a head  more  wonderful  than  Wil- 
liam’s ’ — and  who  afterwards  showed  that  he  had  inherited 
his  father’s  mathematical  powers — he  likewise  was  fated  to 
die  in  the  dawn  of  a promising  manhood,  a victim  to  the 
same  disease  which  wrought  such  dire  havoc  amongst  his 
family. 

But  William  battled  successfully  with  the  constitutional 
delicacy  which  threatened  him  all  his  life.  He,  as  his  mother 
relates  in  that  early  Journal,  grew  ‘ tall  and  pale,’  and  by  and 
by  attained  to  man’s  estate  to  develop  faculties  which  even 
her  phrenology  had  never  dreamed  of. 

In  the  minds  of  children,  however,  trivialities  take  root 
abidingly,  while  the  bigger  events  of  existence  fade  into  no- 
thingness ; and  there  were  three  pictures  of  his  early  days 
which  always  dwelt  in  the  recollection  of  William  De  Morgan 


A NURSERY  JOURNAL  49 

so  that  he  recalled  them  as  a septuagenarian.  One  was  as 
follows  : — 

He  was  still  a tiny  child — oh  ! so  tiny-— though  he  could 
not  measure  the  exact  span  of  his  little  life,  when  one  day  he 
was  playing  and  laughing  in  his  father's  garden.  And  suddenly, 
in  the  middle  of  a romp,  he  planted  his  foot  upon  a wee  sapling 
growing  there,  and  looking  down  he  saw  that  the  little  plant 
which  had  been  so  pretty  a moment  before  lay  trampled  in 
the  earth,  bruised  and  snapped  off  an  inch  from  the  ground. 
And  a lifetime  afterwards  he  could  recall  how  the  scolding 
he  received  for  his  awkwardness  was  nothing  to  him  compared 
with  the  anguish  in  his  little  heart  at  his  unintentional  cruelty, 
or  how  he  went  about  afterwards  feeling  as  though  the  brand 
of  Cain  were  upon  his  brow  when  he  thought  of  the  beautiful 
tree  which  that  sapling  would  have  become  but  for  his  murder- 
ous tread.  ‘ But,'  he  remarked  as  an  old  man,  ‘ if  the  censorious 
spirit  that  I aroused  could  have  foreseen  the  tree  that  was  to 
grow  from  the  forgotten  residuum  of  the  accident,  the  root 
that  it  left  in  the  ground,  it  would  not  perhaps  have  passed 
such  a sweeping  judgment.'  For  he  lived  to  see  a magnificent 
giant  spring  from  that  little  crushed  sprig — ‘ A tree,’  he  would 
say  with  delighted  satisfaction,  ‘ which  you  can  see  to-day 
from  the  very  end  of  the  street  ! ' 

Another  recollection  was  as  follows : He  was  taken  by 

his  mother  to  Mudie’s  Library  to  change  some  books.  A little 
lad,  just  able  to  peer  over  the  counter,  he  stood  with  his  chin 
resting  on  the  woodwork  and  gazed  fascinated  at  the  vista 
of  enticing  volumes  reaching  far  away  into  a distance  which 
he  could  not  penetrate.  Then  he  saw  a tall  gentleman  step 
out  from  the  back  of  the  shop  and  hand  his  mother  a three- 
volume  novel.  ‘ That,’  whispered  Mrs.  De  Morgan,  as  they 
walked  away,  * was  Mr.  Mudie  ! ’ And  sixty-six  years  after- 
wards the  elderly  gentleman  into  which  that  small  boy  had 
developed,  as  the  guest  of  the  evening  at  a large  gathering  of 
authors,  recalled  the  thrill  of  delighted  awe  which  those  words 
had  sent  through  him  as  a lad  when  he  understood  that  he 
had  seen  the  King  of  Librarians,  the  guardian  of  untold  trea- 
sures ! ‘ How  funny,’  he  added  in  conclusion,  ‘ if  Mr.  Mudie 

could  have  looked  forward  and  seen  my  future  ! ’ 

A third  impression  from  his  childhood  followed  him  to  the 
end  of  his  days.  ‘ Did  you  ever  when  a child  have  the  map- 
fever  ? ’ he  wrote ; ‘ I mean  the  passion  for  poring  over  maps, 
gloating  over  the  lakes  and  mountains,  building  imaginary 
towns  to  suit  their  names,  catching  imaginary  fish  in  the  rivers, 
and  chasing  incredible  wild  beasts  in  the  forests — such  forests 
— my  word  ! It  exists,  this  passion,  and  it  rose  to  fever-point 
with  me  at  ten  or  twelve  years  of  age,  in  connexion  with  an 

o 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


50 

enthralling  series  of  maps  of  America,  under  the  stimulus  ol 
early  experience  of  Fenimore  Cooper  and  Catlings  North  Ameri- 
can Indians .’  Never,  all  through  his  life,  could  he  hear  a musical 
Indian  name  without  the  old  glamour  rushing  back  upon  him ; 
never  could  he  think  of  America  without  peering  back  wist- 
fully into  that  magic  dreamland  of  his  boyhood.  'It  ceases 
for  me  to  be  a huge  congeries  of  millionaires  and  Tammany 
and  Trusts  and  nigger-lynching  and  minute  print — a land  where 
one  takes  one’s  telephone  to  bed  with  one  and  rings  one’s 
friends  up  every  half-hour  of  the  night.  It  becomes  again  the 
land  Columbus  found,  good  for  youth’s  fetterless  imagination 
to  run  riot  in  ’ : a land  of  eternal  adventure,  of  inexhaustible 

exploration,  of  hairbreadth  escapes  from  which  one  will  always 
emerge  triumphantly — for  otherwise  would  not  the  story  come 
to  an  end  ? And  that  is  unthinkable  with  all  life  before  one ! 
For  those  ancient  maps  over  which  the  little  lad  had  pored 
depicted  a roadless  wild  filled  with  tribes  of  delightful  aborigines 
long  since  improved  out  of  existence — either  dead  as  the  Past 
to  which  they  belonged,  or  transformed  into  gentlemen  of  intelli- 
gence studying  at  Universities.  ...  ‘ And  now,  ’ De  Morgan 

concluded  in  his  retrospect,  ‘sixty  years  have  passed,  and  the 
Indian  tribes  are  a name,  and  all  the  dream  and  the  romance 
have  vanished,  and  folk  write  letters  to  me — even  to  me — 
from  the  very  places  where  “ The  Savage  drank  his  enemies’ 
blood,”  and  their  letters  are  all  about  . . . my  books 
Curious ! * 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  YOUTH 
1842-1872 

WRITING  in  1914,  William  De  Morgan  summed  up  the 
chief  landmarks  of  his  early  years  as  follows  : — 

* I was  born  in  Gower  Street  (No.  69)  and  resided  there — if  an  infant 
resides— till  my  fourth  birthday,  November  16,  1843.  I can  recollect  it  ! 
In  the  spring  or  summer  of  1844,  my  father  moved  to  No.  7 Camden 
Street  (afterwards  Miss  Buss’s  School,  or  College) . I went  to  the  Univer- 
sity College  School  at  ten  years  old,  I believe  in  1848 — probably  at  the 
opening  of  the  session.  I was  there  till  sixteen,  when  I went  into  the 
College.  In  that  year  my  father  left  Camden  Street  for  41  Charlcot 
Villas,  Adelaide  Road  (afterwards  91  Adelaide  Road).  I then  began  Art 
at  Cary’s  in  Streatham  Street,  Bloomsbury.  I remained  at  College  till 
nineteen,  and  was  then  admitted  to  the  Academy  Schools  in  1859.’ 

Necessarily  throughout  these  years  the  choice  of  a place  of 
residence  by  his  parents  was  always  dictated  by  its  accessibility 
to  the  London  University,  this  being  essential  alike  to  the  Professor 
and  his  children.  Meanwhile  to  the  latter  certain  recollections 
became  indissolubly  connected  with  each  of  their  successive 
homes. 

In  Gower  Street  the  mother  of  Charles  Dickens,  in  days  of 
dire  poverty,  had  striven  to  start  a boarding-school ; and  almost 
daily  little  William  used  to  pass  the  house  which  became  dimly 
associated  in  his  mind  with  the  name  of  the  novelist  which  he 
was  always  hearing— the  man  who  throughout  England  had 
recently  become  a household  god.  In  Camden  Street,  where  were 
subsequently  spent  sixteen  of  the  most  impressionable  years  of 
his  life,  the  atmosphere  of  his  surroundings  may  be  traced  in 
his  own  work  half  a century  afterwards  It  is  not  difficult  to 
imagine  that  the  many  poor  and  thickly  tenanted  slums  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  better  houses  there  made  a deep  impression  on 
the  boy’s  imagination  as  he  took  a short  cut  home  daily  through 
these  purlieus  and  caught  snatches  of  the  queer  talk  of  their 
teeming  inhabitants ; while  exactly  opposite  his  father’s  house 
stood  an  odd  little  Nonconformist  chapel,  which  has  only 
recently  been  pulled  down  to  make  way  for  a County  Council 

51 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


>2 

school,  and  which  was  surely  once  presided  over  by  Joey 
Vance’s  pet  aversion — Mr.  Capstick  of  Hell-fire  fame  ? It  was 
in  Camden  Street  that  William’s  three  younger  sisters  were 
born,  and  there  bright  little  Alice  breathed  her  last.  And  if 
was  there  also  that  his  sister  Chrissy  when  a small  girl,  being 
of  more  orthodox  persuasion  than  the  rest  of  the  family,  and 
perturbed  because  William  had  not  been  christened,  solemnly 
baptized  him  one  day  out  of  a slop-basin  ! 

It  was  in  connexion  with  this  home  too  that  he  always  used 
to  remark  one  curious  coincidence  later  in  life.  For  always 
before  some  great  crisis,  and  invariably  before  a death  in  his 
family,  he  had  a vivid  dream  of  this  Camden  Street  house 
There  was  nothing  particularly  remarkable  about  the  dream, 
apart  from  its  sequel.  It  was  just  a resuscitation  of  ordinary, 
homely  events  in  that  bygone  life,  realistic  in  its  sheer  triviality  ; 
but  it  was  so  inevitably  followed  by  disaster,  usually  bereavement, 
that  he  came  first  to  remark  and  then  to  dread  its  recurrence. 

Adelaide  Road,  when  his  parents  removed  to  it,  was  almost 
like  a country  home,  for  it  was  surrounded  by  fields.  At  the 
date  of  this  transition,  William  had  attended  the  College  School 
for  six  years,  and  he  now  first  began  to  take  the  lessons  in  drawing 
to  which  he  refers.  To  the  present  generation  it  may  be  neces- 
sary to  explain  that  Francis  Stephen  Cary,  to  whose  old  school 
in  Bloomsbury  he  went,  was  from  1842  for  thirty- two  years  a 
well-known  Art  teacher,  and  was  himself  the  younger  son  of  a 
vicar  celebrated  for  his  writings,  and  particularly  for  his  trans- 
lation of  Dante’s  Inferno , published  in  1805.  No  sooner  did 
William  begin  to  study  under  this  tuition,  than  he  began  to 
dream  dreams  about  his  future  in  life  ; and  in  the  last  book 
which  he  gave  to  the  world,  many  passages  of  which  are  auto- 
biographical, he  thus  refers  to  his  misguided  choice  of  a profession, 
when  a boy  of  fifteen. 

‘ Another  landmark  which  had  painful  consequences  for  me  in  after 
life  was  my  discovery  that  I had  a genius  for  the  Fine  Arts.  This  per- 
nicious idea  would  never  have  crossed  my  mind  if  a school-fellow  of  mine 
named  Jacox  had  not  had  another  idea  equally  pernicious,  that  he  had 
a genius  for  Satire.  This  idea  fructified  in  Room  K,  under  circumstances 
as  follows.’ 

And  after  describing  how  he  had  made  a crude  sketch  of  the 
Farnese  Hercules,  and  how  Jacox,  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
remarked  cynically,  “ You  know  how  to  draw,  and  no  mistake  ! ” 
he  says: — 

‘ I perceive  now  that  it  is  too  late — near  sixty  years  too  late  ! — that 
he  was,  according  to  his  lights,  satirical.  He  had  justification,  however, 
in  the  widely  spread  belief  that  an  exaggerated  over-statement  of  the 
contrary  is  an  effective  form  of  ridicule.  What  he  wished  to  convey  was 
that  I did  not  know  how  to  draw,  and  probably  never  should.  I doubt 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 


53 

if  I was  able  at  that  time  to  conceive  myself  incapable  of  anything,  and 
I accepted  his  encomium  seriously.  ...  If  he  had  only  put  his  tongue 
ever  so  gently  in  his  cheek  ! ’ 

In  this  simple  fashion  the  die  was  cast.  On  his  way  home 
the  boy  in  the  story — as  probably  did  the  boy  in  real  life — 
bought  ‘ cartridge  paper  and  a threepenny  BB  pencil,  and  a 
piece  of  india-rubber  of  the  period,'  which  he  promptly  ‘ put 
to  thaw  ’ in  his  breeches  pocket ; and  directly  he  got  indoors 
he  spread  out  his  cartridge  paper  proudly  and  drew  upon  it 
Prometheus  attacked  by  a vulture  whose  wings  spread  all  across 
the  paper.  He  had  the  sense  to  be  dissatisfied  with  this  effort, 
and  tore  it  up  ; but  an  officious  sister  rescued  the  fragments 
from  the  dustbin  where  they  had  been  cast,  and  piecing  them 
together,  subsequently  claimed  enthusiastically  for  the  mutilated 
work  of  Art  the  admiration  of  all  to  whom  she  showed  it.  Thus, 
in  the  story,  was  accomplished  the  gradual  self-deception  of  the 
youthful  aspirant  to  genius,  and  his  final  undoing,  since  his 
talent  was  conspicuous  only  by  its  absence. 

How  far  all  this  is  to  be  taken  as  literally  true  is  immaterial ; 
what  is  of  interest  is  that  the  writer,  reviewing  a far-distant 
Past,  saw  how  the  Destiny  of  a life  invariably  hinges  on  some 
unimportant  incident  scarcely  noticed  at  the  time  of  its  happen- 
ing. From  that  point  onwards  he  describes  faithfully  and 
relentlessly  the  failure  of  his  own  early  attempts  at  painting ; 
the  misleading  applause  which  at  first  egged  him  on  to  a false 
estimate  of  his  powers  ; the  judicial  platitudes  of  the  great 
artist  who  was  pressed  for  an  opinion  respecting  his  incapacity ; 
even  the  social  side  of  the  question  as  it  appeared  in  his  day  is 
dealt  with  in  a vein  of  deft  and  delicate  sarcasm.  Above  all, 
the  inanity  which  directs  the  public  taste  in  the  fashion  of 
Art — so-called — and  the  type  of  artists— so-called — who  prey 
upon  that  inanity,  alike  come  in  for  a measure  of  his  laughing 
scorn. 

There  is  a delightful  description  of  the  Professor  disguised 
as  the  perplexed  father  of  his  hero  striving  to  arrive  at  some 
just  estimate  in  regard  to  the  situation  created  by  his  son’s 
sudden  predilection  for  High  Art.  Stow,  an  Art  auctioneer, 
and  partner  to  a large  firm  of  Art  dealers,  is  appealed  to  for 
his  views  on  the  drawings  which  the  juvenile  artist  has  pro- 
duced : — 

‘ " Keep  to  the  point,”  [urged  the  father] : “ if  one  of  your  boys 
thought  he  could  do  Art,  would  you  let  him  ? ” 

‘“Let  him  be  an  Artist? — Why — certainly!  if  he  showed  ability. 
If  people  bought  his  pictures,  why  shouldn’t  he  make  his  living  that  way  ? ” 
That  brings  us  to  the  point.  Do  you  see  any  reason,  from  these 
drawings,  to  suppose  that  anyone  will  ever  want  to  buy  my  boy’s  pic 
tures  ? ” 


54 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


* " That  can  be  settled  by  trying  the  experiment.  Teach  him  to  paint 
pictures,  and  see  if  anyone  buys  them.  He  can  be  taught  in  three  or 
four  years  if  he’s  tractable.  I fancy — I tell  you  I don’t  know — that 
there’s  nothing  in  these  drawings  to  show  that  he  won’t  be  able  to 
paint  pictures.  Rather  t’other  way,  I should  say.  When  they  are 
painted,  we  shall  soon  see  if  anyone  wants  them.” 

* “ I am  completely  puzzled,”  said  my  father.  And  indeed  he  looked 
so.  " Do  you  mean  to  say,  Scritchey,”  he  continued  after  a moment, 
“ that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  absolutely  good  or  bad  picture — that 
it  is  entirely  a matter  of  fashion  ? ” 

* “ Selling  is  entirely  a matter  of  fashion.  Good  pictures  are  pictures 
that  sell.  Bad  pictures  are  pictures  that  don’t.  There  may  be  people 
that  know  good  pictures  from  bad,  but  all  I can  say  is  they  keep  outside 
auction-rooms.” 

* “ Then  Master  Jackey  may  still  have  a chance,  however  badly  he 
paints  ? ” 

‘ “ Rather.  You  come  to  the  Mart  some  day  when  a big  sale’s  on  and 
see  if  what  I say  isn’t  true.” 

* “ But  I shall  not  know  good  from  bad  myself.” 

**  * Oh,  dear — yes,  you  will ! Everybody  does  ! ’* 

* '*  Doesn’t  that  contradict  what  you  said  before  ? ” 

* **  Of  course  it  does,  flatly.  But  what  I said  before  didn’t  mean  that 
nobody  knew  good  from  bad,  and  that  nobody  could  prove  anything 
-either  way.  Everybody  knows,  but  then  unless  he  praises  what  other 
people  think  rubbish,  nobody  will  credit  him  with  a higher  form  of  know- 
ledge than  his  own,  and  that’s  the  sort  of  fame  bounce  grows  fat  upon. 
Believe  me,  dear  Strap,  that  there  is  a factor  in  Art  of  more  importance 
than  correct  drawing  or  dignified  composition  or  striking  chiaroscuro  or 
vigorous  impasto,  and  that  is  . . .”  Mr  Stowe  dropped  his  voice  to  a 
whisper  on  his  last  word  “ humbug  ! ” ’ 

In  regard  to  the  social  side  of  the  question  at  that  date,  a 
fictitious  stepmother  is  his  mouthpiece  : — 

* I have  sometimes  thought  very  leniently  of  my  stepmother  for  her 
share  in  hurrying  me  on  to  destruction.  Because  although  she  conceded 
to  me  abstract  ability  of  a high  order — and  we  must  remember  that  it  was 
as  much  as  one’s  life  is  worth  to  attempt  to  stem  High  Art — so  long  as  no 
question  was  raised  of  its  adoption  as  a profession,  yet  as  soon  as  a murmur 
of  Destiny  was  reported  to  the  effect  that  I was  “ going  to  be  ” an  artist, 
she  took  up  her  parable  on  the  score  of  Caste,  and  denounced  Art  the 
profession,  however  high  on  the  slopes  of  Parnassus,  as  socially  low,  and 
altogether  unsuited  for  the  son  of  a gentleman.  For,  strange  as  it  seems 
now  to  tell  it,  there  were  still,  in  the  ’fifties,  persons  in  Society  who  grudged 
admission  to  its  sacred  precinct  to  every  Art  but  Literature.  The  elite — 
so  said  a gospel  that  had  survived  from  the  last  age  but  one — might  be 
amateurs,  like  Count  d’Orsay,  but  not  professionals.  And  this  gospel 
was  preached  with  the  greatest  vigour  by  persons  on  Society’s  outskirts, 
who  indeed  are  apt  to  take  up  the  cudgels  in  defence  of  its  citadel  even 
while  the  garrison  is  contemplating  all  sorts  of  concessions  to  the  enemy.’ 

None  the  less,  in  spite  of  the  absurdity  of  some  of  the  barriers 
which  were  placed  in  the  way  of  his  boyish  ambition,  the  sound 
common  sense  of  his  father  put  a decisive,  if  temporary,  veto 
upon  its  fulfilment. 

* My  father,’  he  relates,  ‘ put  his  foot  down  firmly  on  every  attempt 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 


55 

to  bring  the  fine  Arts  into  the  arena  of  serious  discussion  as  a profession 
for  his  son,  until  I had  finished  my  course  at  school,  and  attended  lectures 
for  at  least  a year  at  the  College.  Even  with  that  delay  I should  still  be 
short  of  nineteen — scarcely  old  enough  to  make  the  choice  of  a profession 
compulsory.’ 

It  must  have  been  about  the  date  of  this  early  initiation 
into  Art,  that  William,  presumably  a boy  of  sixteen,  went  with 
one  of  his  fellow  students  from  Cary’s  to  spend  a brief  holiday 
at  Lynton.  Whaite,  this  new  friend,  was  evidently  the  original 
of  ’Opkins  in  The  Old  Man's  Youth ; and  presumably  the 
following  fragment  of  a letter  which  describes  their  visit  escaped 
the  destruction  which  overtook  the  rest  of  it  solely  out  of  respect 
for  the  illustration  of  Mrs.  Bale,  the  landlady,  with  which  it 
is  adorned. 


William  De  Morgan  to  his  Mother . 

* Waterloo  House, 

4 Lynton, 

4 [Undated.] 

9 My  dear  Mother,— 

4 This  person  is  Mrs.  Bale,  our  landlady,  who 
may  be  a very  excellent  person,  but  who  doesn’t 
look  the  character.  This  place  (Waterloo  House) 
is  as  I told  you  a regular  do,  and  will  be  left  by 
us  to-morrow.  We  have  found  a very  good  place 
in  Lynmouth  close  by  the  waterside,  where  our 
expenses  will  be,  I should  think,  very  close  indeed 
to  what  I put  them  at. 

4 It  has  rained  incessantly  throughout  to- 
day, which  has  made  it  impossible  to  begin  any 
real  work,  or  indeed  almost  any  work  at  all,  for 
I could  neither  go  out  of  doors  to  work,  nor  find  anyone  out  of  doors  to 
bring  in  to  work  from.  However,  stretching  canvasses  and  sheets  of 
paper,  and  trying  to  draw  from  the  window,  and  drawing  little  humbugs 
out  of  my  own  head,  has  (or  have)  occupied  me  all  day.  This  won’t 
happen  when  I have  a connexion  among  the  populace,  and  am  able  to 
get  at  the  folks  to  paint  them.  By  the  way,  we  shall  have  at  our  next 
lodgings  a very  decent  sitting-room  big  enough  to  paint  in. 

‘ Whaite  is  a very  pleasant  man  to  be  with.  He  is  uncommonly 
Manchester,  and  spills  the  human  H about  the  floor  copiously.  Likewise 
when  he  begins  to  laugh  he  never  stops.  And  that  is  all  about  him. 

‘ All  except  very  fine  days  I shall  be  indoors  working.  Lynton  would 
be  quite  the  worst  place  in  the  world  for  you.  I think  the  climate  would 
be  bad  and  the  climb-it  worse.  Lynton  is  just  above  Lynmouth — that 
is  four  hundred  feet  up — and  the  ascent  is  quite  as  steep  as  the  most 
active  person  would  wish  it  to  be.  It  is  quite  as  bad  as  anything  at  Pen- 
maenmawr,  but  rather  close  and  muggy  and  shut  in  by  trees,  and  I think 
you  had  better  stick  to  Wales.  . . . 

4 I passed  in  the  coach  through  Lord  Lovelace’s  estate.* 

(The  rest  of  the  letter  is  lost.) 

From  the  University  School,  William  passed  into  University 
College,  where  he  remained  for  three  years,  and  where  a con- 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


56 

temporary  relates  ‘ he  distinguished  himself  as  a scholar,  though 
the  bent  of  his  mind  was  always  towards  science/  It  is  still 
recollected  how,  during  the  lectures  which  took  place,  both  Wil- 
liam and  his  father  were  invariably  to  be  seen  drawing  busily, 
sometimes,  it  appeared,  unconsciously,  so  that  caricatures, 
jests,  or  hobgoblins  of  weird  appearance,  ‘little  humbugs/  were 
always  to  be  found  scrawled  upon  every  scrap  of  paper  that  had 
been  within  their  reach.  Another  taste  young  De  Morgan 
shared  with  his  father  was  that,  although  he  showed  no  love 
for  mathematics,  he  always  maintained  that  ‘ Euclid,  Book  I,  is 
the  most  entrancing  novel  in  literature/  His  own  views,  how- 
ever, about  his  life  at  the  University  are  of  peculiar  interest. 

‘ I think  my  father’s  imagination  was  misled  by  the  word  College. 
He  could  not  dissociate  it  from  his  old  University  life,  with  its  intoxicating 
traditions  of  ancient  learning,  its  freedom  of  sacred  precincts  where  every 
stone  brings  back  its  memories  of  bygone  scholars  ; its  great  silent  libraries 
whose  peace  alone  is  stimulus  enough  to  make  an  otherwise  bookless 
man  read  out  the  day  and  part  reluctantly  in  the  end  with  the  quarto  or 
folio  he  never  would  have  looked  at  elsewhere.  He  had  never  known  how 
much  of  his  own  love  of  the  classics  was  due  to  the  associations  of  the  spot 
where  they  had  reached  his  soul,  and  he  fancied  that  his  son  too  might  be 
bitten  with  the  love  of  Literature  ; or,  it  may  be,  of  the  practice  of  think- 
ing— mathematical  and  scientific  thinking — by  the  surroundings  of  a 
College.  But,  honestly  as  I believe  that  there  was  not  in  the  world,  in 
my  time,  a sounder  curriculum  of  learning  than  the  one  he  offered  me,  it 
had  one  defect.  There  was  nothing  in  the  places  of  study,  in  their  ante- 
cedents and  surroundings,  to  catch  and  hold  the  imagination  of  a crude 
boy,  who,  behind  his  many  faults — which  I do  not  think  my  words  conceal 
— had  one  prominent  impulse  of  the  mind,  which  was  ready  to  grasp  good 
or  evil,  truth  or  falsehood,  according  to  the  garb  it  came  in.  My  year  of 
College  life — in  no  sense  Collegiate  life — placed  the  banquet  of  learning 
before  me  ungarnished  and  colourless,  and  my  father  wondered  why  the 
dishes  that  had  tempted  his  intellectual  palate  in  the  library  of  the  gardens 
of  Peterhouse  should  be  tasteless  to  his  son’s  in  Gower  Street.  Surely  a 
College  is  a College,  wherever  chance  has  placed  it.  He  attached  no 
weight  whatever  to  University  residence,  as  against  home  and  daily 
attendance.  Of  what  disadvantage  was  it  to  a studious  youth  to  be 
shut  out  of  his  College  after  hours  ? Would  any  amount  of  gating  make 
study  acceptable  to  an  unstudious  one  ? — No — it  was  manifestly  my 
aversion  to  letters,  developed  as  soon  as  application  to  them  became 
Dptional ; for  that  was  a condition  precedent  of  College  manhood,  no 
longer  schoolboy-hood.’ 

Thus  William,  finding  no  appeal  to  his  imagination  in  the 
prosaic  surroundings  of  the  Gower  Street  University,  turned 
more  determinedly  to  the  vision  of  Art  which  attracted  and 
teased  him.  The  desire  for  creation,  the  craving  for  self-expres- 
sion which  is  a complement  of  all  intelligent  Youth,  was  in  him 
a living  force  which  fought  to  find  an  outlet  and,  at  first,  sped 
into  the  wrong  channel.  There  is  a typical  letter  from  his  father 
to  him  belonging  to  this  juncture,  on  which  pencilled  comments 
are  added  in  the  recipient’s  handwriting. 


The  Three  Sons  of  Professor  De  Morgan 
Prom  left  to  right — Edward,  William  and  George 


57 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  YOUTH 
Professor  De  Morgan  to  William  De  Morgan . 

• 7 Camden  Street,  N.W., 

* Augusi  24,  1858. 

•Dear  Willy, — 

* Now  that  you  have  fairly  left  College,  it  is  time  to  ask  yourself 
whether  you  have  really  made  up  your  mind  as  to  your  profession — and 
if  so,  whether  you  have  chosen  wisely.  I have  never  interfered,  because 
I cared  little  what  you  thought  at  seventeen  and  eighteen. 

* Do  you  really  think  that  you  are  so  likely  to  adhere  to  the  choice 
you  think  you  have  made  as  to  make  it  worth  while  to  spend  more  time 
upon  it  ? [In  pencil,  in  William’s  handwriting,  Yes.] 

' Have  you  considered  your  chance  of  success  with  any  other  eyes  but 
your  own  ? Would  it  not  be  worth  while  to  take  the  opinion  of  some 
persons  who  have  no  partiality  towards  you  as  to  your  chances. 

* Have  you  considered  other  things  as  to  how  you  should  like  them  ? 

* Are  you  fully  aware  of  the  lottery  character  of  the  profession  of  an 
artist  ? 

‘ Do  you  know  that  it  is  a life  subject  to  very  keen  mortifications.  [In 
William’s  writing — Blow  that  /] 

* Do  you  know  that  the  preparation  for  it  is  very  hard  labour  ? That 
you  must  work  many  hours  a day  for  years  and  years  ? 

[In  William’s  writing — The  same  may  be  said  of  any  profession  in  which 
one  may  become  an  honourable  and  independent  individual.] 

* Think  this  over  for  a fortnight  and  give  me  an  answer.  If,  after 
perfect  deliberation,  you  make  up  your  mind  to  go  on,  well  and  good. 
But  you  cannot  easily  give  too  much  thought  to  what  I have  put  before 
you. 

‘ Give  me  no  answer  for  a fortnight  at  least.  But  even  if  you  wait 
till  you  come  here  give  it  me  in  writing. 

‘ Your  affectionate  Father, 

‘ A.  De  Morgan.* 

[‘  Endorsed  in  William’s  writing — Received  Wednesday,  August  25,  ’58.’] 

The  answer  to  this  letter  has  not  survived,  but  what  its 
gist  must  have  been  is  apparent.  ‘ My  father’s  feeble  opposi- 
tion to  my  wishes  had  to  disappear,’  William  relates,  ‘ though 
I do  not  believe  he  was  ever  convinced  ; he  was  far  too  sensible 
for  that  ! I fancy  he  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that 
I was  still  so  young  that  a year  or  so  spent  in  demonstrating 
my  incompetence  for  Art  could  be  well  spared.’  None  the 
less  it  is  curious  to  find  that  the  Professor  with  his  shrewd 
insight  appears  to  have  realized  one  course  in  which  his  son’s 
immature  genius  might  be  successfully  directed.  ‘ My  father,’ 
wrote  William  nearly  half  a century  afterwards,  * never  gave 
me  but  one  strong  piece  of  advice  about  my  profession,  and 
I disregarded  it  at  the  dictates  of  a boyish  vanity.  He  told 
me  to  read  hard , especially  the  classics , and  I should  one  day 
write  well.  But  I must  needs  “ be  an  artist.”  ’ 

So,  in  his  twentieth  year,  William  entered  the  Academy 
Schools,  which  he  describes  as  follows  : — 

* Another  forty  years  and  the  memory  of  the  old  Academy  Schools 
will  linger  onlv  in  a few  old.  old  noddles  for  a while — a short  while — and 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


58 

will  flicker  out  at  the  very  last  in  the  brain  of  some  centenarian.  Bur* 
lington  House  was  still  a decade  ahead  in  my  day  ; and  the  Schools,  out 
of  the  Exhibition  time,  were  in  the  Exhibition  Rooms.  The  way  in  was 
under  the  right  hand  entry,  and  there  was  a door  on  each  side.  On  the 
left,  to  the  Schools  ; on  the  right,  to  the  Library.  I am  writing  it  down 
to  recall  it  to  myself.  I think  it  must  have  been  in  the  autumn  of  fifty- 
seven  [sic]  that  I entered  that  door  on  the  left.  Can  I blame  it,  that 
when  I did  so  lasciavo  ogni  speranza — left  behind  me,  that  is,  every  hope 
of  becoming  a useful  member  of  society  ? Not  every  hope  of  coming  out 
again,  for  I came  out  to  lunch.’ 

With  graphic  touch  he  describes  his  disillusionment : — 

* As  for  those  I saw  drawing — probates,  I suppose,  as  they  had  passed 
through  successfully — I was  strongly  impressed  with  the  persistency 
with  which  they  gazed  on  their  own  work,  glancing  occasionally  at  its 
original  for  comparison.  Now  and  then,  rarely,  as  a fly  occasionally 
touches  the  surface  of  a still  pool,  the  point  of  a crayon  or  the  bustle  of  a 
stump  touched  the  surface  of  a drawing.  The  serene  contemplation  of 
achievement,  which  filled  the  gaps  between  the  touches,  set  thought  on 
the  alert  to  determine  when  the  drawings  were  actually  executed  ; a task 
before  which  thought  reeled  and  staggered  speechless.  A fair  percentage 
of  these  matured  students  seemed  morally  degenerate — more  reprobates 
than  probates — passing  their  time  in  the  exchange  of  repartees,  the 
comparison  of  the  beauty  of  actresses,  or  reminiscences  of  theatrical 
tit-bits.’ 

Nowhere  did  the  young  Art  student  see  the  earnest  striving 
after  Attainment  which  his  inexperience  had  depicted.  On  the 
contrary, — 

* My  recollection  is  well  supplied  with  dissolute  and  vicious  units  who 
made  up  for  sheer  incapacity,  or  strong  disposition  to  leave  off  work  at 
the  point  at  which  difficulty  begins,  by  audacious  attitudinizing  and 
wholesale  quackery.  The  wonder  of  it  to  me  has  been  that  such  men 
have  been  so  often  taken  at  their  own  valuation,  and  have  been  worked 
up  by  dealerdom,  and  written  up  by  the  press,  until  any  attempt  to 
accelerate  the  natural  gravitation  of  their  “ work  ” towards  Oblivion 
would  only  cause  a recrudescence  of  their  spurious  fame,  and  defeat  its 
own  object. 

* I was  not  qualified  for  a mountebank  by  nature,  and  should  never 
have  scored  a success  on  those  lines.  So  I never  became  a Real  Artist.’ 

In  life  if  we  are  strong  we  mould  Circumstance ; if  we  are 
weak  it  moulds  us.  So  William  De  Morgan,  taking  the  measure 
of  the  charlatans  in  his  profession,  found  his  own  truth  intensi- 
fied. So,  too,  with  unflinching  courage,  he  accepted  his  own 
limitations  and  rebounded  from  the  recognition  braced  to  novel 
effort.  It  must  here  be  remarked  as  curious  that,  so  long  as 
he  attempted  to  paint  on  conventional  lines,  so  long  was  his 
work  redeemed  only  from  mediocrity  by  a certain  quaintness 
of  expression  ; but  even  to  the  untrained  eye,  it  was  anatomi- 
cally uncertain,  stiff  in  outline,  and  somewhat  hard  in  colour. 
No  sooner,  however,  as  we  shall  see  later,  did  he  give  free  rein 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  YOUTH 


59 

to  his  imagination  than  the  beauty  of  line  developed  and  his 
fine  draughtsmanship  became  apparent,  as  did  the  mingled 
originality,  humour  and  facile  execution  which  enhanced  the 
decorative  quality  of  his  work. 

None  the  less,  the  scientific  trend  of  his  mind  made  itself 
felt  even  during  this  stereotyped  artistic  training.  It  was 
impossible  for  him  to  travel  far  along  any  beaten  track.  He 
was  for  ever  trying  fresh  experiments  with  pigments,  thinking 
out  processes  which  might  more  effectually  achieve  some  result 
at  which  he  aimed.  Still  more,  his  love  of  mechanical  invention 
crossed  and  warred  with  the  visionary  element  in  his  nature. 
His  thoughts  were  constantly  caught  in  a mesh  of  intricate 
problems  connected  with  some  discovery  of  practical  utility. 
‘ I know  of  nothing  like  invention  to  make  life  palatable  ! ’ 
long  years  afterwards  he  represented  his  hero  Joseph  Vance 
saying.  Even  so,  the  surprising  versatility  of  his  powers  did 
not,  as  is  usual  with  a nature  which  is  many-sided,  out  of  its 
very  diffuseness,  involve  a corresponding  superficiality.  In 
his  early  career,  as  to  the  last  day  of  his  life,  his  mastery  of 
technical  knowledge  on  any  subject  which  he  tackled  was 
remarkable.  There  was  only  one  matter  on  which,  to  the  end 
of  his  days,  he  preserved  the  ignorance  and  the  simplicity  of 
a child — and  that  was  the  subject  of  finance.  Money — the 
coining  and  the  keeping  of  it — did  not  enter  into  his  scheme 
of  life,  save  only  in  so  far  as  its  absence  crippled  his  mental 
output. 

At  this  date,  as  one  of  a family  of  six,  the  son  and  grand- 
son of  men  who  had  eschewed  all  worldly  advantage,  William 
De  Morgan  had  little  money  and  small  prospect  of  more  coming 
to  him ; moreover  he  had  obstinately  chosen  a profession  which 
was  not  likely  to  prove  remunerative.  Yet  he  faced  life  with 
a happy  irresponsibility,  his  lips  full  of  quips  and  his  mind  full 
of  problems,  while  his  whole  being  radiated  a cheery  Bohemian- 
ism  all  his  own.  ' He  was,  however,  never  talkative,  except 
to  his  intimates,’  related  Sir  William  Richmond  ; and  in  these 
early  days  he  became  known  to  his  friends  by  the  nickname 
of  ‘ the  Mouse,’  partly  on  account  of  his  being  so  quiet,  partly 
because  of  the  abnormal  development  of  his  forehead  in  con- 
trast with  the  smallness  of  his  features.  Good-looking,  tall 
and  slight— an  almost  boyish  slenderness  never  left  him  through- 
out his  life — his  face  presented  something  of  an  enigma  to  the 
curious,  with  its  bright,  alert  expression,  its  crowning  mass 
of  chestnut  hair,  and  the  remarkable  brow — full  of  a promise 
which  the  years  were  to  fulfil.  He  would  sit  silent,  apparently 
indifferent  to  a conversation  going  on  around  him,  but  all  the 
while  absorbing  impressions  into  the  store-house  of  a memory 
which  was  to  be  rich  in  result  half  a lifetime  afterwards.  At 


6o 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


some  unexpected  juncture,  however,  he  would  abruptly  launch 
into  the  conversation  an  absurd  comment,  the  humour  of  which 
it  is  impossible  to  reproduce  on  paper,  since  so  much  of  its 
quaintness  lay  in  the  manner  of  its  utterance — the  attractive, 
high-pitched  drawl  which  his  mother  had  remarked  in  baby- 
hood, and  which  to  all  who  knew  him  was  so  much  a part  of 
his  individuality  that  they  never  cease  to  hear  it,  instinct  with 
life,  still  speaking  from  his  books. 

Even  when  a man  has  drifted  from  youth  to  age,  the  essential 
characteristics  of  his  physiognomy  survive  the  more  ephemeral 
changes  wrought  by  Time.  Thus  a description  of  William 
De  Morgan’s  appearance  as  a septuagenarian,  written  by  Mr. 
Bram  Stoker,  is  not  inappropriate  to  quote  here.  Writing  in 
1908  Mr.  Stoker  says  : — 

‘ William  Frend  De  Morgan  has  a most  interesting  physical  personality. 
Let  me  describe  him  : He  is  in  height  about  six  feet,  though  this  now  seems 
lessened  somewhat  by  his  tale  of  years.  He  is  of  slight  build  with  shoulders 
square.  His  head  is  well  balanced  on  a fairly  long  neck  ; sign  of  high 
type.  It  is  well  shaped  ; very  wide  and  full  behind  the  ears,  with  bold 
forehead  wide  between  the  ridges  which  phrenologists  call  the  “ bumps 
of  imagination.”  These  manifestations  are  sufficiently  marked  as  to  be 
well  noteworthy.  The  top  of  the  forehead  rises  in  a steep  ridge  of  bone, 
manifestly  of  considerable  strength,  for  it  once  resisted,  without  evil  effect 
collaterally,  a blow  from  the  swing-back  of  a heavy  door  which  stripped 
away  the  skin.  The  frontal  sinuses  are  not  strongly  marked.  The 
eyebrows  are  fairly  thick.  The  nose  is  a delicate  aquiline  as  to  its  ridge, 
with  the  tip  slightly  pointed  and  drooping,  and  with  long,  though  not 
wide,  nostrils.  The  chin  is  somewhat  pointed,  and  the  jaws  are  rather 
narrow  than  wide.  The  eyes  are  blue-grey  and  of  good  size.  The  ears  are 
small  and  delicate.  The  mouth  is  medium  ; straight  and  not  long,  with 
lips  rather  thin  than  thick. 

* His  hand  is  characteristic  ; the  fine,  dexterous,  sensitive  hand  of  an 
artist  skilled  in  plastic  work.  The  palm  is  wide.  The  fingers  are  long 
and  fine  ; very  little  webbed  at  the  joining  the  palm.  They  are  pointed 
at  the  tips,  but — strange  to  say  with  regard  to  an  art-worker — hardly 
spatulated  at  all.  The  whole  of  the  inner  side  of  the  hand  is  wrinkled 
and  lined  in  a remarkable  way.  He  has  a strange  story  to  tell  of  a predic- 
tion based  on  the  lines  of  his  hand  made  long  ago.  . . 

This  story  is  as  follows  : — 

About  the  age  of  twenty,  he  went  to  a soothsayer  to  have 
his  fortune  told.  The  man,  looking  at  his  palm,  appeared  aston- 
ished, and  exclaimed  that  the  hand  was  a most  remarkable 
one.  ‘Fame  will  come  to  you,’  said  the  fortune-teller,  ‘but 
it  will  not  be  till  late  in  life.  Only  after  middle-age  is  over  will 
success  be  yours,  and  then  it  will  come  from  a totally  unexpected 
quarter.  Your  name  will  be  known,  and  will  be  a household 
word  in  remote  places  of  the  earth  where  your  foot  will  never 
tread.  This  will  be  the  case  in  Africa.  Australia,  and  above 
all  in  America/ 


6i 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 

De  Morgan,  however,  little  impressed  with  this  prediction, 
still  adhered  to  the  career  which  he  had  mapped  out  for  him- 
self ; and  it  was  while  he  was  thus  struggling  through  a phase 
of  misplaced  effort  in  regard  to  Art  that  he  made  most  of  what 
he  termed  later  ‘ the  great,  fortunate  friendships  of  my  life.’ 
One  of  the  earliest  of  these  was  with  Mr.  Henry  Holiday,  the 
well-known  artist,  sculptor,  and  designer  in  stained  glass,  who, 
now  an  octogenarian,  has  some  happy  memories  of  the  De  Morgan 
family  over  half  a century  ago.  Writing  of  the  year  1863,  Mr. 
Holiday  says  : — 

‘ We  became  intimate  this  spring,  and  I was  often  at  Adelaide  Road 
where  his  family  lived.  His  father,  Professor  De  Morgan,  well  known 
for  his  writings  on  spiritualism,  the  three  sons,  William,  George  and  Edward, 
and  the  daughters  Annie,  Chrissie  and  Mary,  formed  an  attractive  and 
interesting  household,  not  the  less  so  to  me  that  they  were  most  of  them 
musical.  Professor  De  Morgan  played  Pleyel’s  Sonatas  for  piano  and 
flute  with  his  daughter  Annie.  Edward  played  the  violin  and  was  in 
great  request  with  amateur  orchestras  ; and  most  of  them  sang.  . . . 

‘ My  parents  and  I arranged  to  go  to  Wales  in  the  summer  of  that 
year,  and  either  by  accident  or  design  the  De  Morgans  went  too,  to  Bettws-y- 
Coed.  The  two  families  were  near  each  other  for  some  weeks,  and  had  a 
lot  of  part  singing.  . . . William  De  Morgan,  now  so  eminent  as  a writer, 
was  then  a working  artist,  and  I felt  much  encouraged  by  his  good  opinion 
of  my  early  efforts  in  decorative  design. 

‘ It  was  at  Beddgelert  that  the  idea  of  extending  the  range  of  the 
binocular  occurred  to  him.  ...  It  was  not  till  twenty-seven  years  later 
when  De  Morgan  and  his  wife  came  to  stay  with  my  wife  and  myself  in  our 
cottage  at  East  Preston  on  the  Sussex  Coast,  that  he  reminded  me  of  the 
theory.  I at  once  went  to  Worthing  and  got  good  glasses,  constructed  a 
frame  and  set  them  up  accurately,  and  the  effect  was  wonderful.  Distant 
trees,  that  appeared  to  the  unassisted  eyes  to  be  in  the  same  place,  when 
seen  in  this  instrument  started  apart  in  their  relative  distances  in  a sur- 
prising manner.  . . .* 

He  proceeds  to  point  out  how  invaluable  such  a discovery 
was  for  Naval  and  Military  purposes ; and  adds  the  sequel 
which  might  have  been  anticipated — that  it  was  adopted  by 
the  German  Government,  not  the  British  ! 

Staying  also  at  Bettws-y-Coed  in  1863  was  Simeon  Solomon, 
the  artist,  and  a Mr.  Davidson  with  his  daughters,  both  of 
whom  were  musical,  and  one  of  whom  played  beautifully.  One 
evening  she  played  the  Waldstein  Sonata  exquisitely  while 
the  rest  of  the  party  listened  entranced.  Never  afterwards 
in  life  could  De  Morgan,  who  was  passionately  fond  of  music, 
hear  this  Sonata  without  being  deeply  moved.  ‘ It  is  the  best 
argument  for  immortality  that  I know  ! ’ he  once  said.  None 
the  less,  at  the  conclusion  of  Miss  Davidson’s  rendering  of  it, 
Mr.  Holiday,  turning  to  him,  remarked  enthusiastically,  ‘ How 
brilliantly  she  plays  ! ' ‘ Yes  ! ’ rejoined  De  Morgan  with 

a gasp  of  satisfaction,  * it  was  so  brilliant  it  made  me — wink  ! ' 


62 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


Chrissy,  William’s  sister,  Mr.  Holiday  relates,  was  very 
clever  and  witty,  and,  he  considers,  had  a larger  share  of  her 
father’s  humour  and  her  brother’s  genius  than  the  rest  of  the 
family.  On  one  occasion  when  Mr.  Holiday  was  visiting  the 
De  Morgans,  the  company  present,  four  men  and  four  girls, 
found  themselves  seated  in  a complete  circle.  The  conversa- 
tion, in  consequence,  turned  in  jest  on  the  question  of  squaring 
the  circle.  Chrissy  suddenly  announced  that  she  could  solve 
it.  All  listened  with  breathless  interest  for  the  solution.  ' You 

take  a soft  circle ’ she  began,  and  no  further  explanation 

was  necessary  ! 

Mary  De  Morgan,  the  youngest  of  the  family,  was  likewise 
extremely  lively  and  full  of  fun.  She  would  toss  her  short, 
waving  hair  out  of  her  eyes  in  the  wild  breeze  upon  the  Welsh 
mountains  and  complain,  4 My  gay  hairs  will  bring  me  down 
in  sorrow  to  the  grave ! ’ Nevertheless,  Mr.  Holiday  then 
considered  her  too  downright  and  determined.  She  was  talk- 
ing, one  day,  of  the  lack  of  common  sense  exhibited  by  people 
with  artistic  tendencies,  and  the  subject  being  admittedly 
capable  of  a personal  application,  he  remonstrated  warmly  : — 

* My  dear  Mary,’  he  said,  ' I am  afraid  you  are  very  pre- 
judiced ! ’ 

' Well — all  artists  are  fools,’  was  the  blunt  rejoinder.  * Look 
at  yourself  and  Solomon  ! ’ 

But  if  Mr.  Solomon  fared  badly  under  the  criticism  of  Mary, 
he  never  forgot,  and  used  to  retail  with  zest,  the  fashion  of 
his  first  meeting  with  William.  William  was  introduced  to 
him  at  a party,  and  at  once  in  his  high-pitched,  leisurely  drawl, 
remarked  tentatively — ' I thought,  it  was  you,  you  know,  because 
I knew  you  by  your  appearance.’ 

Another  young  friend,  known  to  Henry  Holiday,  Mr.  Amherst 
Tyssen,  was  also  staying  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  his  diary 
mentions  his  first  meeting  with  some  of  the  De  Morgan  family, 
when  they  played  at  'the  game  of  cartoons.’  'William,’  he 
says,  ' was  the  name  of  the  son  who  visited  us  . . . Mary  is  a 
precocious  little  minx ; Chrissy  is  an  athlete  ...  all  are  good- 
looking  . . . William  evidently  has  long  given  up  the  practice 
of  hair-cutting.’ 

Subsequently  the  three  young  men  joined  forces  in  many  ex- 
peditions and  a welcome  addition  to  the  party  was  the  Rector 
of  Beddgelert,  who  somewhat  inappropriately  bore  the  name 
of  Priestley,  while  rejoicing  ' in  the  manners  of  a rollicking 
schoolboy.’  ' He  was,’  relates  Mr.  Tyssen,  ' an  odd  sort  of 
fellow  for  a clergyman,  good-hearted  and  outspoken.  On 
some  mention  of  matters  ecclesiastical  in  his  presence  one  day, 
he  exclaimed  with  unaffected  naivete , ' Oh — something  cleri- 
cal ? — I hate  that  sort  of  thing  ! ’ Mr.  Tyssen  adds  how,  one 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH  63 

day,  De  Morgan,  Holiday  and  himself  were  escorted  up  Snow- 
don by  the  boyish  Rector.  4 He  took  us  through  most  boggy 
ground.  It  was  all  thick  mist ; and  when  on  the  summit  I 
wrote  a calculation  to  show  that  the  view  from  Snowdon  extended 
seventy-four  miles  over  the  sea,  he  said  promptly,  ‘ What  a 
lie_you  can’t  see  six  yards  ! ’ Long  years  afterwards  some 
recollection  of  Priestley  must  surely  have  materialized  in  De 
Morgan’s  imagination  into  the  figure  of  Athelstan  Taylor,  the 
athletic,  attractive  rector  in  It  Never  Can  Happen  Again ; 
but  in  those  early  days  he  contented  himself  with  sending  to 
Tyssen,  anent  their  new  acquaintance,  ‘ a set  of  humorous  Latin 
rhyming  lines  with  comments  on  them.  In  these  he  introduced 
Dominus  Sacerdotalis,  of  whom  one  commentator  said  tails 
qualis  est  and  the  Welsh  Editor  added  the  words  immo  vero.’ 
One  day  an  ear-splitting  sound  of  firing  annoyed  all  staying 
at  the  little  Inn,  and  they  learnt  that  a wedding  was  taking 
place  at  which  Priestley  was  officiating.  At  a quarter  to  eight 
in  the  morning  the  happy  pair  drove  off  to  Portmadoc  to  get 
married,  when  twenty-one  guns  were  fired ; on  their  return 
at  noon — the  bridal  couple  and  guests  seated  together  in  one 
huge  car  driven  by  a postilion — again  there  was  a loud  volley 
of  guns  ; and  yet  again  a more  continuous  fusilade  took  place 
when  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  when  most  of  the  villagers, 
joining  in  the  festivity,  got  uproariously  drunk.  The  ‘ guns  ’ 
employed  were  primitive  but  extremely  ingenious.  Vertical 
holes  were  bored  in  the  rocks  above  the  inn,  and  connected 
by  cracks,  so  that  a marksman  hitting  one  of  these  fired  the 
lot  in  a series  of  deafening  explosions  which,  combined  with 
the  echo  rolling  up  the  valley,  created  a prolonged  uproar  as 
of  pandemonium  let  loose.  ‘ I wish  to  Goodness  they  wouldn’t 
get  married  so  loud  ! ’ observed  William  plaintively. 

Visitors  who  have  stayed  some  time  in  a place  are  apt  to 
consider  themselves  in  the  light  of  ‘ old  residents  ’ compared 
with  fresh  arrivals  whose  advent  seems  to  be  that  of  mere 
‘tourists.’  The  merry  party  at  Bettws-y-Coed  coined  a word 
for  any  objectionable  intruder  of  this  type,  who  was  forthwith 
contemptuously  termed  a Bawp.  One  day,  walking  along 
the  road,  they  saw  a man  approaching  and  began  speculating 
whether  he  would  turn  out  to  be  a fresh  arrival,  whereupon 
the  problem  was  propounded  how  it  was  possible  to  decide 
if  a new-comer  were  a Bawp  or  not.  William  gave  the  matter 
his  consideration.  ‘ All  men,’  he  pronounced  judicially,  ‘ are 
Bawps  unless  they  can  prove  themselves  to  be  the  contrary  ! ' 
The  Professor,  it  may  be  added,  did  not  come  to  Bettws-y- 
Coed — even  as  a Bawp.  He  frankly  disliked  the  country,  so 
that  he  had  been  known  to  describe  the  mild  rurality  of  Black- 
heath  as  ‘ a miserable  scene  of  desolation.’  William  did  not 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


64 

share  this  idiosyncrasy.  Even  with  his  rooted  dislike  to  any 
conventional  form  of  society,  he  was  naturally  of  a sociable 
disposition ; but  he  delighted  in  beautiful  scenery,  and  was 
insatiable  in  his  desire  to  see  the  sunrise  from  the  summit  of 
a Welsh  mountain.  Mr.  Tyssen  records  how  on  several  occasions 
young  De  Morgan  and  Holiday  sat  up  till  one  in  the  morning 
in  order  to  start  on  a climb  with  this  object  in  view,  from  which 
they  returned  in  time  for  breakfast  and  a dip  in  the  lake.  On 
one  occasion,  however,  when  he  accompanied  them,  they  set 
off  at  nine  at  night,  walked  along  the  coast  by  the  light  of  a 
rising  moon,  ate  their  supper  at  midnight  in  a churchyard, 
‘ to  enjoy  a sensation  of  creeps/  and  finally  encamped  far  up 
the  hill-side  to  sleep  romantically  among  the  heather  till  dawn. 
Unfortunately  for  their  intention,  they  awoke  a few  hours 
later  in  a deluge  of  pouring  rain,  and  as  the  grey  daylight  came, 
it  revealed  only  a mass  of  impenetrable  clouds  drifting  all 
around,  so  that  nothing  was  left  to  them  but  to  make  their 
way  home  lashed  by  the  wind  and  the  wet,  chilled  to  the  bone, 
drenched  but  undaunted. 

These  expeditions,  however,  were  occasionally  not  without 
danger,  owing  to  the  screes  which  they  utilized  in  their  descent, 
and  which  are  a peculiarity  of  the  district.  The  action  of  the 
weather  constantly  breaking  off  small  pieces  from  the  rocks 
on  the  mountains,  these  fall  and  form  sloping  heaps  of  loose 
stones  against  the  steep  acclivities.  ' If  you  mount  on  the 
top  of  a pile  of  screes/  relates  Mr.  Tyssen,  ‘ and  descend  it  by 
digging  your  feet  violently  into  the  mass,  you  loosen  a great 
body  of  the  stones  at  each  step,  and  carry  them  down  with 
you.  It  is  something  like  skating  and  requires  the  exercise 
of  skill.  Of  course  the  stones  near  the  top  of  the  pile  are  the 
loosest ; as  you  descend  they  become  more  compact  and  at 
the  foot  they  are  solid  and  fixed  by  the  vegetation  which  has 
sprung  up  among  them.  The  heap  of  screes  on  the  south  side 
of  Mynydd  Mawr  was  the  biggest  we  had  seen  anywhere,  and 
one  day  we  ascended  the  mountain  on  purpose  to  have  the 
fun  of  grinding  down  the  heap/ 

The  result  was  somewhat  disastrous,  for  although  they 
had  a lovely  view  from  the  top,  where  they  amused  themselves 
by  building  a small  cairn  to  commemorate  their  visit,  in  descend- 
ing, De  Morgan  hurt  his  foot,  while  Henry  Holiday,  relates  Mr. 
Tyssen,  ‘ got  too  much  steam  up,  and  losing  his  balance  rolled 
over  and  over  amongst  the  rocks  for  more  than  fifty  feet  before 
it  was  possible  for  him  to  stop/ — fearfully  bruised  and  shaken, 
his  head,  hands,  and  legs  cut,  and  pouring  blood. 

But  in  those  light-hearted  days,  misadventures  were  soon 
forgotten,  particularly  by  De  Morgan  with  his  eager,  versatile 
temperament.  ‘ The  entries  in  my  diary/  remarks  Mr.  Tyssen, 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  YOUTH 


65 

' show  that  in  1863  William  De  Morgan  was  strong,  active  and 
enterprising.  He  was  also  well-informed,  clever  and  humorous. 
This  came  out  particularly  when  we  played  the  games  he  and 
his  family  were  fond  of,  such  as  drawing  pictures  and  writing 
stories  on  those  drawn  by  the  others,  also  making  a list  of  words 
and  finding  rhymes  to  these,  thus  fashioning  sets  of  verses.  It 
was  not  always  easy  to  find  a rhyming  connexion  with  a given 
word ; but  William  solved  the  difficulty  by  introducing  a nega- 
tive. He  discovered  that  it  was  always  possible  to  find  a rhym- 
ing word  about  something  which  the  given  subject  did  not  do 
or  was  not ! One  evening  we  had  a competition  in  finding  as 
many  rhymes  as  possible  tojthe  word  “ piano  ” and  William 
won  by  inventing  a number  of  ridiculous  combinations  of  words 
which  supplied  the  necessary  rhyme.  At  this  date,  too,  he 
and  Henry  Holiday  on  wet  days  were  jointly  painting  a picture 
which  represented  the  body  of  the  Lady  of  Shalott  floating 
down  the  river  to  Camelot  and  exciting  the  wonder  of  spectators 
on  the  bank.  Each  did  a small  portion  of  the  picture,  as  the 
spirit  moved  him,  and  then  left  it  to  his  collaborator  to  continue 
as  the  latter  saw  fit.  The  result  was  curious  and  rather  beauti- 
ful.’ 

They  sometimes  played  at  finding  anagrams,  and  William 
found  one  for  his  father,  Augustus  De  Morgan,  which  was  singu- 
larly appropriate 

* Great  Gun,  do  us  a sum  ! * 

This  was,  however,  surpassed  by  one  confided  to  him  by  his 
friend  Mr.  Graves,  later  the  author  of  Father  O’ Flynn.  The 
father  of  Mr.  Graves,  who  was  Bishop  of  Limerick,  and  his 
uncle  John  Graves,  who  was  Professor  of  Jurisprudence  at 
University  College,  were  great  friends  of  Professor  De  Morgan, 
and  on  one  of  the  rare  occasions  when  the  latter  left  town  the 
Bishop  and  the  two  Professors  were  walking  by  the  seaside, 
when  John  Graves,  who  prided  himself  on  his  anagrams,  saw 
an  invitation  to  an  open-air  service  which  contained  the  tempt- 
ing announcement  of  a special  ‘ Seaside  Hymn.’  At  once 
the  letters  wickedly  rearranged  themselves  into  an  anagram 
to  which  he  involuntarily  gave  expression — ' Damn  his  eyes  ! ’ 
— * He  thought,’  related  Mr.  Graves  to  William,  ‘ that  after 
this  he  had  better  give  up  anagrammatizing,  as  the  habit  was 
becoming  morbid  ! ’ 

A sample  of  the  game  of  ‘Cartoons,’  as  De  Morgan  played 
it,  has  survived.  At  this  date  he  and  Holiday  had  already 
made  friends  with  a young  artist,  Edward  (Burne)  Jones,  who 
added  greatly  to  the  hilarity  of  their  circle,  and  who  entered 
with  zest  into  this  pastime  of  drawing  pictures  to  which  a story 


66 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


was  to  be  supplied  by  the  victim  on  whom  these  were  foisted. 
Upon  one  occasion  Jones  drew  a set  of  fantastic  drawings  to 
show  what  he  termed  ‘ economy  for  publishers  ’ — that  is  how 
one  set  of  pictures  could  be  utilized  to  illustrate  two  entirely 
different  tales — and  De  Morgan  and  Holiday  were  deputed 
each  to  write  a separate  interpretation  of  the  designs  without 
seeing  what  the  other  had  written.  Holiday  thereupon  wrote 
an  extremely  ingenious  paper  purporting  to  be  drawn  up  by 
Austen  Henry  Layard  for  General  Sabine,  of  the  Royal  Society, 
Assyria,  giving  an  account  of  the  further  exploration  of  ‘ the 
great  Palace  of  Kouyunjik  ’ and  of  the  unique  bas-reliefs  and 
sculptures  found  therein  : while  De  Morgan,  perhaps  recalling 
his  recent  training  under  the  son  of  the  great  translator  of 
Dante,  described  the  drawings  as  representing  a new  version 
of  the  Divina  Commedia. 

As  the  earliest  specimen  of  De  Morgan’s  fiction  now  existing, 
these  verses  are  of  interest ; but  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
they  were  no  serious  composition,  only  a carelessly  written 
effusion  in  a boyish  game ; while  no  emphasis  is  necessary  to 
point  the  baffling  nature  of  the  drawings  which  they  interpret, 
or  the  topical  character  of  the  interpretation  in  days  when 
the  pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  represented  the  newest  phase 
of  Art,  when  Literature  was  still  sentimental,  and  when  Fashion 
decreed  that  crinolines  were  de  rigueur,  so  that  each  woman,  if 
not  a ‘ dowdy  ’ or  a ‘ blue,’  was  confined  in  a ‘ stout  cage/ 


‘ The  following  are  the  fragments  of  Dante's  Inferno  which 
Michael  Angelo  illustrated . Cary's  translation / 


• . . . Then  my  Guide  : — 

**  Lo,  monsters  twain  [No.  i]  beside  the  Infernal  gate 
Who  circle  rotary  in  hideous  dance  ! 

Father  are  they  and  daughter,  Death  and  Sin, 

Whom  Satan  passed  in  Milton.  I forget 
Its  whereabouts  i’  the  poem  ; but  it’s  there  ! ** 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  YOUTH  6 7 

'Then  in  the  brazen  lock  the  key  revolved 

Courteous.  Then  I — “ Sweet  father,  what  is  this  Shape  ? ” [No.  2] 
And  to  me  he — “ Cerberus  ” . . . . 

Athwart  the  path  it  stood,  a form  to  awe 

The  stoutest  [No.  2 a],  who  had  fallen  on  the  path  1 

On  it  beholding.  . . . 

• . . . . • • 

* Now  had  we  left  the  noonday  sunset’s  ray  [No.  3] 

Sinister,  all  a-pause  on  Cancer’s  Zone 
Betwixt  Astrea  and  the  Scorpion’s  sign 
In  juxtaposition.  There  with  digit  raised 
Virgil — “ Behold  ! ” I looked  and  saw  a throng 
Of  Ghosts  tumultuous  [No.  4],  females  rushing  on 
Headlong  towards  a dungeon.  “ Who  are  these. 

Sweet  pedagogue  ? ” said  I ; and  he  to  me — 


* **  The  Heroines  of  Romance,  who  expiate, 

Here  in  this  circle,  mawkishness  above.” 

Then  we  approached,  and  those  sad  Shades  cried  out— 

“ Alas  ! Alas  ! that  ever  we  were  bores  ! ” 

Then  I — “ Among  ye  are  there  any  here 
Of  Florence,  or  of  any  other  town 

In  Italy,  or  out  of  it  ? ” — “ Yea  we  ! ” and  one — “ Yea,  I 
Was  Agatha’s  Husband’s  Wife,  an  awful  bore, 

A woeful  and  abominable  bore.” 

“ And  I was  ‘ Mrs.  Halifax,  lady,'  cried  another. 

Then  a third  and  smaller  one — 

“ And  I was  Muriel  in  the  self-same  novel 
As  she  who  last  addressed  thee.”  Then  they  all 
With  one  accord,  set  up  a mournful  song — 

“ Go  tell  Miss  Mulock  2 to  ha’  done,  and  make 
Night  hideous  with  her  bores  no  more  ! ” “ And  I,** 

One  other  cried,  “ was  Esther  Summerson 
In  Dickens’s  Bleak  House,  a conscious  minx 
A mock-meek  bore,  a moralizing  bore. 

O should’st  thou,  Mortal,  e’er  to  earth  return, 

Implore  my  Author  that  he  ne’er  again 

Write  sentiment  ! ” She  vanished  and  we  passed 

Onward  ....  * 

1 Footnote  by  De  Morgan.  Michael  Angelo  appears  to  have  misunder- 
stood this  passage,  having  drawn  ‘ the  stoutest  ’ on  the  path  distorted 
with  horror.  It  is  a fine  specimen  of  that  foreshortening  for  which  he  is 
remarkable. 

2 Miss  D.  M.  Mulock  (Mrs.  Craik),  author  of  John  Halifax,  Gentleman , 
and  a very  large  number  of  novels. 


68 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


‘ The  citroned  pudding  and  the  osseous  beef  ' seen  in  the 
corner,  No.  5,  give  scope  for  a dissertation  upon  Love  contrasted 
with  the  action  of  ‘ the  insignificant  Rat/  who  tries — 

‘ To  use  Free  Will  according  to  Free  Won’t,’ 

and  the  poem  continues — 


* Then  in  the  circle  twenty-fifth  we  moved 
And  I my  Guide  bespake — “ O Teacher,  say 
What  yonder  form  betokens  ? ” [No.  6]  for  beyond 
(One  from  a multitude)  a fiend-rid  goose 
With  wing  outspread  and  agonizing  cry 
Swept  o’er  the  Vast.  Then  Virgil  thus  to  me — 

“ O Son,  thou  seest  here  the  fruit  of  Sin 
Most  deadly,  Criticism  called  of  Art  ! 

For  yonder  Goose,  a critic  erst  on  Earth 
Now  pays  the  price  of  many  an  Article 
At  which  an  earthly  goose  might  well  have  sneered.* ** 
Then  we  approached,  and  to  the  bird  I spake  : — 

“ Wast  thou  of  Florence  ? ” and  he  “ No  ! ” replied ; 
“ Of  Marylebone  was  I.  I was  an  Ass 
On  Earth,  and  therefore  am  a Goose  ; 

I wrote  of  what  I did  not  understand 
For  many  penny  periodicals 

And  others.  Yet,  O mortal  (shoulds’t  thou  e’er 
Return  to  Marylebone)  implore  my  friends 
Not  to  be  horrid  humbugs  ! ” . . . 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  YOUTH 


69 


1 “ In  yonder  dark  abysm,”  [No.  7]  said  my  guide 
“ Are  punished  Blues  and  Dowdies,  they  who  wore 
No  crinoline  on  Earth,  and  thence  looked  limp. 

Or  trod  with  clumsy  foot  on  toe  of  male. 

The  former  that  I mentioned  went  cram  full 
Of  History  and  the  Tongues  to  festive  scenes. 

And  scientific  recreations  talked 

Each  to  her  partner  in  the  dance.”  And  k>  I 


Even  then  a bonnet  coal-scuttle  I saw 

On  female,  tough  and  durable,  who  fled 

A ruthless  fiend  [No.  8],  He  with  a bristled  broom 

Swept  her,  she  clinging  to  the  wall  with  cries 

And  lamentations,  towards  a frightful  cage 

(From  which,  ’twould  seem,  she  had  escaped)  and  drove 

Her  in,  where  she  with  wailing  sank  to  earth. 

While  he  the  devilish  engine  locked  and  barred. 

Then  we  approached.  That  Demon  fell  and  foul 
With  broom  upraised,  in  act  to  strike,  surveyed 
My  Teacher,  with  forbidding  mien.  But  he 
With  mild  rebuke  suggested  other  course. 

“ Forbear,”  he  said,  “ for  beings  twain  can  play 
The  game  thy  mood  suggesteth.”  So  he  fled. 

And  the  woman  from  beneath  the  cage, 

“ O mortal,  for  that  such  thou  art  I see, 

I was  on  Earth  a Dowdy  and  a Blue 
And  eke  strong-minded.  Wherefore  I bewail 
Hampered  by  deadly  Crinoline,  my  Sins. 

O pity,  though  thou  blame  ! And  O take  note 
(Alas  ! Alas  ! that  ever  I took  notes) 

Of  my  forlornness  ! Not  a book  have  I 
T’  inform  the  stronger-minded  ! No — not  a tome  I 
Hast  thou  a Cyclopaedia  ? Perchance 
Thou  hast,  and  thou  woulds’t  lend  it.”  ...  * 

The  next  illustration,  No.  9,  represents  the  Hell  of  those  : — 

* Who  are  wont  to  take  no  sugar  in  their  teas, 

O error  prime  and  impious ’ 

(De  Morgan  himself  being  wont  to  indulge  in  a plentiful 


70 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


supply.)  Therein  a friend  is  seen  bearing  away  one  of  the  offenders 
in  a wheelbarrow  to  immerse  him  in  a pool  of  molasses  ; while 
No.  io,  a man  on  a gallows,  is  said  to  depict  an  enemy  of  the 
pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  : — 

* “ Say,  who  was’t  thou  on  Earth,”  I said  to  him 
Who  swung  in  midmost  air  with  woeful  plaint. 

“ I was  a hanger  ! ” straight  he  answered  me. 

“ I who  once  hanged,  now  hang  for  evermore. 

J hanged  my  friends  upon  a line.  All  P.R.B.’s 

I skied,  and  now  myself  am  skied  ! ” “ Explain,”  said  1 

And  he — “ I was  of  the  Academy 

Where  Plato  taught.  In  thy  Square  Trafalgar 

An  Academician  I 

The  Boshite  hanged,  and  sided  the  P.R.B. 

Or  altogether  fearless  to  become 
In  danger  of  the  Council,  turned  him  out.” 

Then  at  the  gallows  base  a bitter  fiend 

With  scoff  and  scorn  cried  out — “ Go  hang  thyself! 

Thou  rogue  thou.”  ’ 

In  a similar  vein  many  other  pictures  are  explained  ; and  mean- 
while Holiday,  with  well-feigned  erudition,  discussed  them  from 
the  standpoint  of  an  excavator  and  antiquarian.  In  No.  I he 
saw  an  interesting  ancient  bas-relief  of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne.  In 
the  so-called  ‘ Cerberus  ’ he  saw  ‘ the  fall  of  Phaeton,  and  one  of 
the  horses  galloping  off  in  the  direction  of  Vulcan’s  forge,  leaving 
the  rash  youth  on  the  plain.’  In  the  long  train  of  ladies  in 
crinolines  and  coal-scuttle  bonnets,  instead  of  Miss  Mulock’s 
sentimental  heroines,  he  saw  ‘ the  visitors  returning  home  from 
Belshazzar’s  Feast,'  the  remains  of  the  viands  being  seen  upon 
the  right ; while  in  the  lady  being  attacked  by  the  broom,  he  saw 
‘ the  heroine  of  an  Assyrian  fable  being  swept  from  the  Globe.’ 
Finally,  upon  the  mysterious  cage  in  the  corner  he  discoursed 
yet  more  learnedly,  having  deciphered  the  ancient  characters 
relating  to  it  which,  in  phonetic  spelling,  revealed  that  it  was  a 
mysterious,  pre-historic  article  known  as  a kri-nu-lin. 

De  Morgan’s  early  acquaintance  with  Edward  Burne-Jones 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 


71 

soon  developed  into  a closer  comradeship.  The  young  artist, 
about  six  years  older  than  himself,  had  in  1863  been  married 
little  more  than  three  years  to  Miss  Georgina  Macdonald,  one  of 
the  five  daughters  of  a Wesleyan  Minister,  who  were  all  remark- 
able for  their  extraordinary  talent  and  beauty.  ‘ Our  friendship 
with  William  De  Morgan/  relates  Lady  Burne-Jones,  in  the  Life 
of  her  husband,  ‘ began  in  Great  Russell  Street 5 [where  they  lived 
from  1862  to  1865],  ‘ when  his  rare  wit  attracted  us  before  we 
knew  his  other  loveable  qualities.'  The  laughter-provoking 
spirit  of  Burne-Jones,  his  bubbling  humour,  his  happy  philosophy 
of  life  at  this  date,  and,  above  all,  the  warm-hearted  spontaneity 
of  his  affection  in  dark  days  and  bright,  found  a ready  echo  in 
De  Morgan’s  heart,  apart  from  the  lure  of  his  genius. 

Other  friendships  likewise  centre  round  this  date.  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti  with  his  vivid  personality,  Ford  Madox-Brown 
with  his  daring  innovations  in  art,  Charles  Faulkner,  Cormell 
Price,  Woolner — a clique  of  gifted,  ardent  spirits,  with  Spencer- 
Stanhope,  who  was  later  to  be  so  closely  associated  with  De 
Morgan’s  life,  and  William  Morris,  ‘ Top  ’ of  the  fiery  genius,  with 
his  beautiful  wife,  ‘ Janey.’ 

In  Great  Russell  Street,  with  kindred  companions,  De  Morgan 
spent  delightful  Bohemian  evenings  to  which  ever  after  he  would 
regretfully  revert — evenings  when  the  unsophisticated  little 
Yorkshire  maid  used  to  add  to  the  hilarity  by  coming  in  with  the 
naive  inquiry,  * 'as  any  of  you  gentlemen  seen  the  key  of  the 
beer-barrel  ? ’ Among  a coterie,  however,  who  lived  to  make 
the  world  more  beautiful,  who  had  created  for  themselves  an 
atmosphere  of  medievalism  till  they  affected  it  in  mannerisms 
and  speech,  Rossetti,  as  a relief  from  the  too  rarefied  atmo- 
sphere, introduced  the  habit  of  talking  Cockney.  The  contrast 
between  their  ideals  and  their  lingo  subsequently  furnished  much 
food  for  merriment ; and  De  Morgan,  with  his  curious  drawl, 
became  an  adept  at  this  new  accomplishment  which  was  to  have 
a result  on  his  after-career  that  he  little  anticipated. 

Many  of  Burne-Jones’s  letters  to  him,  purposely  illiterate  in 
diction  and  spelling,  illustrate  this  phase.  One,  undated,  runs 
as  follows  : — 
a 

‘ My  de  A r de  Morgan, 
mem 

do  you  rem  A ber  a frame  i likt  at  your  house  it  wus  a frame  from 

c 

florrence  it  wus  ^nice  one  and  i likt  it  may  Mr.  VaAani  make  me  one  lik 
it  may  he  call  at  your  house  and  I may  add  your  good  ladies’  house  on 
Monday  nex  about  12  or  so  I will  try  to  come  round  on  Sunday  afternoon 
to  adentify  the  frame  i hope  u are  quite  well  this  seseonable  winter  i am 
| ded  so  is  most  people  i hope  to  get  good  news  from  you  and  all  your 
famly  with  wishes  for  a happy  new  year  when  it  comes  i am 

‘ Your  affectionate 

‘ Ned.’ 


72  WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

Later,  he  added  more  explicit  instructions  in  his  normal 
manner  : — 

* If  Vacani  calls  on  Monday,  and  very  kind  of  you  it  is  of  you  to  permit 
his  approach  to  your  secluded  retreat — if,  I say,  when  I was  interrupted, 
he  comes  on  Monday  the  frame  I mean  is  a pretty  one  I can’t  remember 
but  have  a powerful  recollection  of — it  used  to  be  in  a corner  of  your 
drawingroom,  on  the  left  of  the  fire  place  if  you  are  warming  your  front, 
and  on  the  right  if  you  are  warming  your  back — and  it  was  a tall  thing, 
and  as  I say  I shall  never  forget  it  though  I can’t  a bit  remember  more 
about  it  and  I am 

* Your  affect 
‘ Ned.’ 

Most  of  these  letters  conclude  with  a clever  caricature  of  the 
writer  in  lieu  of  signature.  All  contain  sentences  which  linger  in 


the  memory.  ' I wish  I could  see  you/  Burne-Jones  writes 
despairingly,  after  a prolonged  absence  from  home,  ‘ time  is 
slipping  by  horribly.  I suppose  we  shall  meet  as  Bogies — and  if 
you  promise  not  to  frighten  me  I will  promise  not  to  frighten 
you  ! No  hiding  behind  doors  mind,  I can’t  stand  it,  my  nerves, 
never  of  the  best,  are  not  likely  to  be  better  then  ! ’ On  another 
occasion,  after  a good  grumble  at  an  enforced  absence  from  home, 
he  adds  : ‘Now  I am  in  a calmer  frame — as  the  picture  observed 
when  the  newspapers  said  it  wanted  more  repose.  But  O come 
and  let  us  be  joyful  on  Saturday  evening.’ 

Once,  noticing  a fresh  canvas  in  Burne-Jones’s  studio,  De 
Morgan  inquired  if  it  was  intended  for  a new  picture.  'Yes/ 
replied  Burne-Jones,  quoting  the  conventional  newspaper 


Caricature  by  Edward  Burne-Jones 

Sketched  for  William  De  Morgan 

“Drawn  by  E.  B.  J.  to  show  me  he  could  have  drawn  like  Caravaggio  if  he  had 

tried.” — Wm.  De  M. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH 


73 

criticism  of  pre-Raphaelite  work — ‘ I am  going  to  cover  that 
canvas  with  flagrant  violations  of  perspective  and  drawing,  in 
crude  inharmonious  colour/  Later  in  the  evening  he  said  to  De 
Morgan  : 'You  know  that  was  all  gammon  I was  talking  about 
perspective  and  drawing — I only  do  things  badly  because  I don’t 
know  how  to  do  them  well — I do  want  to  do  them  well/  Another 
time  he  remarked  : 4 Why  should  people  attack  artists  as  they 
do  ? — Artists  mean  no  harm — at  least  I don’t.  I only  want  to 
make  a beautiful  thing,  that  will  remain  beautiful  after  I am 
a Bogey,  and  give  people  pleasure  when  they  look  at  it.’ 

One  Sunday  afternoon  De  Morgan  brought  his  mother  to  look 
at  the  pictures  Burne-Jones  was  painting.  As  we  have  already 
seen,  Sophia  De  Morgan  took  life  somewhat  seriously,  and  at 
this  date  she  had  been  devoting  much  time  to  the  study  of 
Symbolism,  in  which  she  was  fast  becoming  an  expert.  No 
sooner  did  she  see  the  work  of  the  young  artist,  than  she  began 
reading  into  it  a meaning  a-tune  to  her  favourite  hobby.  ‘ What 
I do  appreciate  in  your  painting,’  she  said,  at  last,  judicially, 
turning  to  him  after  studying  it  for  some  time  with  great  solemnity, 
‘ is  its  depth  of  meaning — its  profound  symbolism  ! How  well 
I read  your  intention  here — and  here — and  here  ’ — enumerating 
rapidly  several  mystical  interpretations  of  the  subjects  before 
her. 

* My  dear  fellow,’  said  Burne-Jones  to  De  Morgan  with  amaze- 
ment when  she  was  gone,  ‘ I am  so  delighted  she  saw  that  in  it — 
I never  knew  it  was  there  ! ’ 

Many  a laugh  in  the  years  to  follow  did  De  Morgan  have  over 
other  interpretations  of  his  friend’s  work.  For  instance,  on  one 
occasion,  Burne-Jones’s  beautiful  * Golden  Stair  ’ appeared  under 
the  wrong  number  in  the  catalogue  as  ‘ A Stampede  of  Wild 
Bulls.’  On  another,  a very  affected  model  mentioned  that  she 
was  sitting  to  * Mr.  Jones,  one  of  the  rising  artists  of  the  day,  for 
a beautiful  religious  subject,’  i.e.,  the  female  figure  in  a picture 
of  * Christ  and  the  Woman  of  Samaria,’  and  De  Morgan — unable 
to  recall  any  work  bearing  this  title  on  which  Burne-Jones  was 
then  engaged,  and  suspecting  a practical  joke — made  inquiries 
and  found  that  the  deluded  lady  was  posing  for  the  female  in 
‘ King  Cophetua  and  the  Beggar  Maid.’ 

When  Burne-Jones  left  the  house  in  Kensington  Square,  where 
he  lived  after  leaving  Great  Russell  Street,  and  moved  to  the 
Grange,  West  Kensington,  he  took  De  Morgan  round  the  garden 
of  his  new  home  in  order  to  expatiate  on  the  beauty  of  the  vegeta- 
tion of  which  he  had  become  the  proud  possessor.  ‘ We  are  so 
excited,’  he  said,  pointing  to  some  bushes,  ‘ to  see  whether  these 
turn  out  to  be  peaches  or  blackberries  ! ’ 

One  of  the  first  letters  sent  by  him  to  De  Morgan  from  this 
new  address  refers  to  a picture  which  he  had  just  been  painting 


74  WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

while  on  a visit  to  Spencer-Stanhope  near  Cobham,  ‘where, 
relates  his  wife,  ‘ our  host’s  cheery  companionship  indoors  did 
him  as  much  good  as  the  fresh  country  air  outside.’  Apparently 
De  Morgan  had  recently  been  suffering  from  one  of  those  passing 
fits  of  depression  to  which  youth  and  an  artistic  temperament 
are  inevitably  prone,  and  the  recognition  distressed  Burne- 
Jones. 

Edward  Burne-Jones  to  William  De  Morgan . 

* The  Grange, 

* North  End  Road, 

‘ Fulham,  S.W. 

‘ West  Grandmother. 

* Dear  DM., — 

‘ You  can’t  see  the  Annunciation,  its  away  being  photingrafted — but 
come  to-morrow  eveng — Mr.  Morris  is  here,  and  there  will  be  Mr.  Rooke, 
R.A.,  on  his  way  to  Venice — come. 

‘ I thought  you  looked  not  quite  happy — it  has  bothered  me — I wanted 
you  to  come  on  Sunday  to  be  cheered, — I don’t  like  you  to  look  like  that. 
I want  you  fat  and  merry,  full  of  rude  and  coarse  jesting,  I don’t  like  you 
to  be  miserable.  If  I could  help  you  in  this  ere  . . . life  you  ought  to 
tell  me — ought  to — for  I’m  old  enough,  aye,  and  ugly  enough  to  be  any- 
body’s father,  and  I’d  give  you  money  (up  to  a pound  say)  or  advice 
(derived  from  a close  study  of  Epictetus) — anyhow  I’d  cheer  and  comfort 
you  and  try  to  make  you  merry. 

* I’m  always  merry — I don’t  care — I won’t  care 

‘ Come  to-morrow  and  we’ll  sneer  aloud.  Mr.  Morris  will,  in  the  course 
of  the  evening — I should  say  coarse — Mr.  Morris  will,  I repeat  damn 
many  things,  and  it  is  good  to  hear  him,  he  will  express  himself  in  an 
uncompromising  manner  about  life  generally  and  will  brace  the  nerves 
of  the  flaccid. 

‘ Dear  old  chap,  come,  and  we  dine  as  you  know  at  7J. 

‘Your  affect 

* Ned.* 

Many  years  afterwards  De  Morgan  tried  to  recall  his  earliest 
impression  of  William  Morris  who  was  five  years  his  senior.  ‘ I 
first  met  him,  ’ he  writes,  ‘ at  Red  Lion  Square,  where  I was  taken 
by  Henry  Holiday — the  very  earliest  dawn  of  him  to  me  being 
the  Athenceum  review  of  his  earliest  poems  (Dr.  Garnett  wrote 
it,  I fancy),  quoting  Rapunzel.  At  this  visit  I chiefly  recollect 
him  dressing  himself  in  vestments  and  playing  on  a regal,  to 
illustrate  certain  points  in  connexion  with  stained  glass.  As  I 
went  home  it  suddenly  crossed  my  mind  as  a strange  thing  that 
he  should,  while  doing  what  was  so  trivial  and  almost  grotesque, 
contrive  to  leave  on  my  memory  so  strong  an  impression  of  his 
power — he  certainly  did,  somehow.’ 

Morris’s  own  remarks  concerning  the  value  of  first  impressions 
may  well  have  recurred  to  De  Morgan  in  this  connexion.  ‘Always 
trust  your  first  impression,’  Morris  used  to  say;  ‘it  is  pretty 
sure  to  be  right.  Later,  you  may  fancy  it  was  wrong,  but  you 
will  invariably  come  back  to  it  in  the  end  ! ’ — ‘ Morris/  De  Morgan 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  YOUTH 


75 

remarked  subsequently,  * was  certainly  the  most  wonderful 
genius  I ever  knew.  He  produced  poetry  as  readily  as  a bird 
sings ! ’ One  day,  calling  upon  the  Burne-Joneses,  De  Morgan, 
who  adored  children,  wandered  up  to  the  nursery  to  pay 
his  respects  to  little  Margaret  Burne-Jones ; and  on  coming 
downstairs  again,  he  relates  : ‘ I found  Morris  in  the  parlour — 
he  was  nibbling  a pen.  And  he  said,  after  a few  words  of  chat — 
‘ Now,  you  see.  I’m  going  to  write  poetry,  so  you’ll  have  to  cut 
— I’m  sorry,  but  it  can’t  be  helped  ! ’ So  I cut — and  I have  a 
notion  that  I know  what  he  wrote  that  evening,  as  next  Saturday 
when  I turned  up,  as  I always  did  then-a-days,  he  read  us  a lot 
of  the  study  of  Psyche.  So  I’m  glad  I cut  ! — I recollect  his 
remarking  that  it  was  very  hard  work  writing  that  sort  of  thing. 
I took  it  that  he  was  speaking  of  the  thrashing  Psyche  gets  at 
the  hands  of  Venus.  He  really  felt  for  her — and  was  evidently 
glad  it  was  over.’ 

Another  early  recollection  of  ‘Top’s  ’ moments  of  inspiration 
was  even  more  impressive.  Calling  upon  him  one  day  in  Great 
Ormond  Street,  De  Morgan  was  startled  by  a shower  of  books 
which  flew  out  of  a window  on  the  first  floor.  ‘ Oh,  never  mind, 
sir,’  said  the  servant  to  him  apathetically ; ‘It’s  only  Master 
composing  ! ’ 

Once  while  De  Morgan  was  sitting  with  Morris,  he  received 
a visit  from  a wealthy  Jew  who  wished  to  consult  him  about  six 
panels  in  a scheme  of  decoration.  After  the  man  had  departed, 
Morris  sat  absently  pencilling  upon  the  walls  of  the  room  a 
design  resembling  the  figure  6.  Thereupon  De  Morgan,  who, 
according  to  his  habit,  had  been  idly  scribbling  on  a sheet  of 
paper,  added  to  his  previous  flights  of  fancy  the  portrait,  shown 
overleaf,  of  their  late  visitor,  fashioned  out  of  the  same  hiero- 
glyphic. 

Even  at  this  date  Morris  was  full  of  the  enthusiasm  for  social 
reform  which  later  became  a dominant  factor  in  his  life.  ‘ I 
go  about,’  he  said  to  young  De  Morgan,  ‘ preaching  the  divine 
gospel  of  Discontent.’  To  him  contentment  represented  stagna- 
tion, the  fatal  barrier  to  progress.  To  De  Morgan  it  was  an 
inherent  part  of  his  temperament.  Life,  that  ‘ shining  and  name- 
less thing,’  was  to  him  a riddle  curious  and  interesting,  which, 
in  its  different  phases,  he  regarded  with  the  eye  of  a philosopher 
— not  a reformer. 

It  was  in  another  matter  that  the  influence  of  William  Morris 
upon  his  career  at  this  juncture  was  pronounced. 

As  an  aftermath  of  the  Tractarian  movement,  a strong 
impetus  had  been  given  to  Church  decoration  during  the  years 
immediately  preceding  this  period.  The  bare  places  of  worship 
which  had  been  approved  by  a more  Puritanical  generation,  were 
being  transformed  under  a growing  desire  for  beauty  of  ornament 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


76 

and  design.  Decorative  Art,  in  the  ascendant,  was  recognized 
as  a valuable  asset  of  the  Church  ; and  Jowett,  writing  to  a 
friend  in  1865,  notices  as  a prominent  sign  of  the  times,  the 


* sesthetic-Catholic  revival  going  on  in  the  London  Churches. ' 
To  meet  the  need  of  the  age  in  matters  both  ecclesiastical  and 
secular,  William  Morris  established  himself  as  the  champion  of 
artistic  handicraft. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH  77 

Fresh  from  painting  the  Oxford  Union,  he  and  others  of  his 
fraternity  met  and  discussed  methods  for  rendering  the  common- 
place things  of  life  more  beautiful.  ‘ The  first  notion  of  the  firm 
of  Morris  & Company,  the  name  and  wares  of  which  have  since 
become  so  widely  spread,’  relates  Mr.  Mackail,  'sprang  up  among 
friends  in  talk,  and  cannot  be  assigned  to  any  single  author.  It 
was  in  a large  measure  due  to  Madox-Brown  ; but  perhaps  even 
more  to  Rossetti,  who,  poet  and  idealist  as  he  was,  had  business 
qualities  of  a high  order,  and  the  eye  of  a trained  financier  for 
anything  which  had  money  in  it.  To  Morris  himself,  who  had 
not  yet  been  forced  by  business  experience  into  being  a business 
man,  the  firm  probably  meant  little  more  than  a definite  agree- 
ment for  co-operation  and  common  work  among  friends  who  were 
also  artists  ...  of  these  associates  Burne-Jones  and  Madox- 
Brown  were  regularly  employed  in  making  designs  for  stained 
glass,  mainly,  of  course,  for  church  windows.'  Premises  were 
taken  at  8 Red  Lion  Square  in  1861,  a few  doors  from  the  rooms 
formerly  shared  in  their  bachelor  days  by  Morris  and  Burne- 
Jones  ; although  with  the  establishment  there  of  the  firm  of 
‘ Morris,  Marshall,  Faulkner  & Co.,'  many  of  those  who  had  first 
discussed  the  scheme  drifted  to  other  occupations.  ‘ The  old 
Oxford  Brotherhood,  with  its  ideas  of  common  life  and  united 
action,  finally  fell  asunder  ' ; Spencer-Stanhope,  and  others  of 
the  former  fraternity  remained  no  more  than  deeply  interested 
spectators  of  the  new  venture  ; while  even  ‘ Morris,  Burne-Jones 
and  Faulkner  were  actually  in  a minority  in  the  new  association/ 
The  designing  of  work  undertaken  by  the  firm  was,  of  course, 
mainly  carried  out  by  the  members  of  the  firm  themselves ; 
‘ but  other  artists,  including  Albert  Moore,  William  De  Morgan 
and  Simeon  Solomon,  made  occasional  designs  for  glass  and 
tiles.'  1 In  the  basement  a small  kiln  was  built  for  the  firing 
of  these. 

De  Morgan  was  by  now  convinced  that  his  first  venture  as 
an  artist  was  a failure.  ‘ I certainly/  he  wrote  many  years 
afterwards,  * was  a feeble  and  discursive  dabbler  in  picture- 
making. I transferred  myself  to  stained-glass  window-making, 
and  dabbled  in  that  too  till  1872/  About  the  age  of  twenty-five 
he  turned  his  attention  to  this  new  line  of  work,  but  he  estimated 
his  own  powers  in  regard  to  the  result  too  modestly.  ‘ His 
designs  for  stained-glass  windows  were  often  remarkable,’  was 
the  verdict  of  his  contemporary.  Sir  William  Richmond,  to  which 
William  Morris  added  his  testimony,  and  the  daughter  of  the 
latter,  Miss  May  Morris,  long  years  after,  related  how  specimens 
of  his  glass  which  she  saw  hanging  up  in  his  home  struck  her  as 
being  ‘ singularly  rich  in  colour  and  simple  and  dignified  in 


1 The  Life  of  William  Morris,  by  J.  W.  Mackail,  Vol.  I,  pp.  144-5. 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


78 

design.*  The  very  suggestion  of  something  primitive  and 
mediaeval  in  his  conceptions  which,  as  long  as  he  adhered  to 
painting  pictures,  involved  a certain  lack  of  pliability  and  life 
in  his  figures,  fell  into  harmony  with  the  ecclesiastical  ideal  at 
which  he  now  aimed,  as,  too,  did  his  love  of  quaint  outline  and 
intricate  ornamentation  ; while  the  glowing,  jewel-like  colours 
which  he  sought  to  produce,  gave  fresh  scope  for  his  love  of 
scientific  experiment. 

Meanwhile  the  congenial  fraternity  with  which  he  had  become 
associated  in  the  fresh  impetus  given  to  the  Arts  and  Crafts  did 
not  in  any  measure  monopolize  his  individual  effort.  He  remained 
always  apart,  never  even  nominally  connected  with  Morris’s 
enterprise,  and  working  on  independent  lines.  ‘ A common 
error/  he  said,  later  in  life,  ‘ is  to  suppose  that  I was  a partner  in 
Morris’s  firm.  I was  never  connected  with  his  business  beyond 
the  fact  that,  on  his  own  initiative,  he  exhibited  and  sold  my 
work,  and  that  subsequently  he  employed  my  tiles  in  his  schemes 
of  decoration.’ 

The  first  tile  which  De  Morgan  produced,  a pink  lustre, 
blurred  and  dull  compared  with  his  later  work,  he  took  to  show 
to  another  friend,  Horatio  Lucas,  by  whose  family  it  is  still 
treasured.  ‘ Keep  that,’  said  Mr.  Lucas  privately  to  his  wife, 
‘ for  one  day  De  Morgan  will  be  a great  man  ! ’ But  although 
the  painting  of  tiles  was  one  of  the  primary  occupations  of 
the  new  Morris  Firm  in  Red  Lion  Square,  yet  when,  in  process 
of  time,  De  Morgan  undertook  the  manufacture  of  these  on  a 
large  scale,  Morris  decided  that  it  was  no  longer  necessary  to 
continue  this  branch  of  his  own  industry,  and  subsequently  he 
procured  all  requisite  tiles  from  De  Morgan,  executed  in  the 
latter’s  designs.  ‘ Morris  never  made  but  three  designs  for  my 
execution,’  De  Morgan  once  remarked — ‘the  Trellis  and  Tulip , 
the  Poppy  and  another- — I forget  the  name.  I never  could  work 
except  by  myself  and  in  my  own  manner.’ 

Thus  first  in  London  Street,  then  in  Grafton  Street,  and  finally 
at  40  Fitzroy  Square,  De  Morgan  conducted  his  own  experiments 
in  stained  glass  and  soon,  by  a natural  transition,  in  tiles  and 
lustre- ware.  ‘ His  is  the  story,’  related  William  Morris’s  daughter, 
many  years  after,  ‘ of  most  of  our  Arts  and  Crafts  workers  of  the 
mid  and  later  nineteenth  century — the  impulse  of  invention  that 
seeks  for  outlet — the  invention  brought  to  a dead  stop  by  the  loss 
of  tradition  in  the  crafts — the  necessity  of  spending  valuable 
time  experimenting  in  the  ABC  of  an  Art,  and  patiently  working 
it  up  in  the  path  in  which  his  instinct  guides  him.’  At  length, 
being  dissatisfied  with  the  reproductions  of  his  designs  and  the 
poor  interpretations  of  his  ideas  by  others,  De  Morgan  set  up  a 
kiln  in  the  cellar  of  the  house  in  Fitzroy  Square  in  order  to  attempt 
his  own  reproductions,  and  ran  the  flue  through  an  old  chimney 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  YOUTH  79 

of  the  building.  Miss  Laura  Hertford,  who  rented  the  floor 
above,  an  artist  who  had  the  distinction  of  being  the  first  lady 
ever  to  exhibit  in  the  Royal  Academy,  viewed  these  proceedings 
with  considerable  mistrust.  ‘ You  will  burn  the  house  down  ! ’ 
she  remonstrated  ; but  William  De  Morgan  had  no  misgivings, 
and  he  thus  describes  the  result  : — 

* In  ’72  (or  ’70)  I re-discovered  the  lost  Art  of  Moorish  or  Gubbio 
lustres.  It  had  been  re-discovered  before  in  Italy  in  1856 — but  that  I 
didn’t  know  at  the  time,  or  I wouldn’t  have  presumed.  It  has  been 
re-discovered  since,  times  out  of  number,  and  a glorious  array  of  old  Italian 
names,  Maestro  Giorgio  of  Gubbio,  etc.,  is  always  trotted  out  to  mount 
the  re -discoverers  on.  I never  did  anything  to  justify  a belief  that  the 
art  of  the  cinquecento  had  been  re-discovered — it  was  merely  the  pigment. 
But  that’s  neither  here  nor  there. 

‘ Well ! — in  the  course  of  my  re-discoveries,  the  flame  from  my  kiln 
discovered  a wood-joist  in  the  house  chimney  of  40  Fitzroy  Square,  and 
the  roof  got  burned  off.  This  incendio  sat  for  the  fire  at  C.  Vance  and 
Co’s.  I hadn’t  any  money,  so  when  my  new  factory-to-be  was  discussed, 
I demurred  on  the  ground  that  I couldn’t  find  a locus  for  it,  and  keep  the 
stained  glass  on,  perhaps.  A friend  offered  capital,  and  I moved  from 
the  ruins  of  my  Carthage.  I started  afresh  as  a potter,  but  I lost  my 
stained  glass,  which  was  bringing  me  more  than  I have  ever  earned  since.’  1 

‘ The  landlord  didn’t  seem  at  all  amiable  ! ’ De  Morgan 
remarked  pathetically,  when  referring  to  his  act  of  incendiarism  ; 
but  this,  to  him,  unreasonable  peevishness  on  the  part  of  the 
owner  of  the  house  certainly  was  the  direct  means  of  terminating 
one  phase  of  his  artistic  career,  and  inaugurating  another.  Before 
dwelling  on  this  new  chapter  in  his  life,  however,  we  must  glance 
briefly  at  certain  events  which  were  happening  in  his  home  circle, 
and  the  trend  of  which  helped  to  clinch  his  new  departure. 

His  father,  Professor  De  Morgan,  had,  as  we  have  seen,  joined 
University  College  in  early  youth,  chiefly  with  a view  to  upholding 
the  ideal  of  religious  tolerance  in  matters  educational.  For 
thirty-six  years  he  had  held  the  Professorship  with  a disin- 
terested loyalty  of  attachment  to  that  principle,  since,  as  already 
mentioned,  a man  of  limited  means  and  large  family,  he  could, 
with  his  brilliant  acquirements,  have  readily  obtained  a more 
lucrative  and  advantageous  appointment  elsewhere. 

In  1866,  however,  the  Professorship  of  Mental  Philosophy 
and  Logic  at  the  College  fell  vacant,  and  the  Rev.  J.  Martineau 
was  a candidate  for  the  chair.  He  was  a distinguished 
scholar  and  admirably  suited  for  election  ; but  he  was  rejected 
by  the  Council  on  the  ground  that  he  was  a Unitarian.  This 
was  a departure  from  the  ideal  which  the  College  had  been 
founded  to  maintain — ‘ its  loudly  vaunted  principle  that  the 
creed  of  neither  teacher  nor  student  was  to  be  an  element  of  his 


6 A letter  written  in  1906  to  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 


8o 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


competence  to  teach  or  learn,’  and  still  more,  the  decision  was, 
as  Professor  De  Morgan  pointed  out  in  this  particular  instance, 
dictated  by  worldly  considerations  both  unworthy  and  incon- 
sistent. ‘ The  interference  of  the  College  as  a College,’  he  wrote 
to  Sir  John  Herschel,  ‘ and  a settlement  of  this  question  officially , 
is  a step  in  which  it  concerns  me,  with  my  way  of  thinking,  to 
take  a part.’  Sincerity  had  been  the  guiding  motive  of  Augustus 
De  Morgan’s  life,  and  he  at  once  resigned.  * It  is  unnecessary 
for  me  to  leave  the  College — the  College  has  left  me,’  he  wrote, 
and  in  a fine  and  impassioned  letter,  which  he  addressed  to  the 
Council,  he  lamented  bitterly  their  abandonment  of  that  grand 
spirit  of  tolerance,  ‘ in  which  there  is  more  religion  than  in  all 
exclusive  systems  put  together,’  Later,  when  it  was  desired  to 
place  some  likeness  of  him  in  the  Institution  to  whose  advantage 
he  had  devoted  his  life,  he  refused  sternly  : — 

* I am  asked  to  sit  for  a bust  or  picture,  to  be  placed  in  what  is  de- 
scribed as  “ our  old  College.”  This  location  is  impossible ; our  old  College 
no  longer  exists.  It  was  annihilated  in  November  last. 

* The  old  College  to  which  I was  so  many  years  attached  by  office,  by 
principle,  and  by  liking,  had  its  being,  lived  and  moved  in  the  refusal  of 
all  religious  disqualifications.  Life  and  Soul  are  now  extinct. 

‘I  will  avoid  detail.  I may  be  writing  to  some  who  approve  of  it. 
To  me  the  College  is  like  a Rupert’s  drop  1 with  a little  bit  pinched  off 
the  end  ; that  is,  a heap  of  dust.  . . 

But  bravely  as  he  faced  the  issue,  the  blow  at  the  very  root 
of  the  work  to  which  his  life  had  been  devoted  was  felt  by  him 
severely.  ‘ If  force  of  will  can  succeed,’  he  said,  * the  Institution 
is  to  pass  away  from  before  my  mind  and  to  become  as  if  it  had 
never  existed.’  But  other  causes  at  this  date  accentuated  the 
mental  grief  and  strain  which  resulted  in  a rapid  undermining  of 
his  physical  strength. 

As  before  mentioned,  his  eldest  daughter,  little  Alice,  had  been 
in  her  grave  since  Christmas,  1853,  a victim  to  phthisis.  The 
year  following  the  Professor’s  retirement  from  University  College, 
his  son  George,  then  founder  and  secretary  of  the  Mathematical 
Society — the  one  of  all  his  children  who  had  appeared  destined 
to  follow  in  his  own  footsteps — succumbed  to  tuberculosis  of  the 
throat  after  three  years  of  anxiety  respecting  his  lungs.  At  that 
same  date  his  other  son,  Edward,  had  been  forced  to  go  away  for 
an  eighteen-months’  voyage  in  ‘ a very  fluctuating  state  of  health, 
which  occasioned  constant  anxiety  to  his  parents.’  And  still 
another  cloud  began  to  gather  over  the  stricken  family  in  the  dire 


1 A Rupert’s  drop  is  a drop  of  glass  which  is  thrown  while  in  a state 
of  fusion  into  water,  and  consolidates  into  a retort -like  shape.  The  bulb 
may  be  struck  sharply  with  a hammer  without  breaking,  but  if  the  end  of 
the  tail  be  nipped  off,  the  whole  flies  into  dust. 


THE  OLD  MAN’S  YOUTH  81 

illness,  from  the  same  cause,  of  Chrissy,  one  time  the  merriest 
member  of  the  home  circle. 

The  Professor  faced  these  successive  tragedies  with  pathetic 
patience.  ' A strong  and  practical  conviction  of  a better  and 
higher  existence,’  he  wrote  to  his  old  friend,  Sir  John  Herschel, 
‘ reduces  the  whole  thing  to  emigration  to  a country  from  which 
there  is  no  way  back  and  no  mail  packets,  with  a certainty  oi 
following  at  a time  to  be  arranged  in  a better  way  than  I can  do 
it.’  But  the  time  of  his  own  departure  was  then  nearer  than  he 
dreamed.  An  abnormally  hot  summer  in  1868,  acting  on  a 
constitution  weakened  by  intense  mental  suffering,  brought  on  a 
sharp  attack  of  congestion  of  the  brain ; and  although  he  again 
rallied  and  his  mental  powers  resumed  much  of  their  old  vigour, 
the  death  of  his  daughter  Christina  in  August,  1870,  was,  in  seven 
months,  followed  by  his  own. 

For  many  years,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  been  deeply  interested 
in,  and  had  closely  investigated,  tales  of  appearances  of  the  dead 
to  the  dying.  During  the  last  two  days  of  his  life  his  son  William, 
watching  by  him,  observed  that  he  seemed  to  recognize  the 
presence  of  all  those  of  his  family  whom  he  had  lost  by  death — 
his  three  children,  his  mother  and  sister,  all  of  whom  he  greeted 
audibly,  naming  them  in  the  reverse  order  to  that  in  which  they 
left  this  world.  Whether  it  was  the  wandering  of  a dying  brain 
or  a happy  vision  of  actuality,  who  shall  decide  ? But  the  belief 
in  which  he  lived,  and  in  which  he  died,  was  proclaimed  in  the 
old  fighting  spirit  by  a characteristic  sentence  in  his  will : — 

* I commend  my  future  with  hope  and  confidence  to  Almighty  God  ; 
to  God  the  Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  Whom  I believe  in  my  heart 
to  be  the  Son  of  God,  but  Whom  I have  not  confessed  with  my  lips,  because 
in  my  time  such  confession  has  always  been  the  way  up  in  the  world 

To  William,  the  loss  of  his  father  with  whose  character  his 
own  was  so  much  akin  ; the  brooding  shadow  of  death  which  had 
engulfed  so  many  loved  members  of  the  home-circle  and  still 
hung  threateningly  over  the  survivors  ; and  the  sudden  catas- 
trophe which  had  overtaken  his  work  just  when  it  was  promising 
to  be  a financial  success — all  came  with  a sequence  of  disaster 
which  would  have  stunned  a less  buoyant  temperament.  Bui 
deeply  as  he  suffered,  he  bore  the  ills  of  life  with  the  elasticity  oi 
a philosopher.  If  his  former  world  had  become  a pinch  of  dust, 
all  the  more  did  it  behove  him  to  construct  a new  one.  In  1872, 
with  his  mother  and  his  sister  Mary,  the  only  remaining  members 
of  his  family  dependent  on  his  care,  he  moved  from  the  house  at 
Primrose  Hill,  where  his  father  had  died,  to  No.  30  Cheyne  Row, 
and  there  in  the  garden  he  established  a kiln,  and  started  life 
as  a potter. 


F 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD 
1872-1881 


HE  house  in  which  began  the  new  era  in  De  Morgan’s  career 


1 was  in  a quiet  backwater  of  Chelsea,  two  doors  removed 
from  that  occupied  by  Carlyle,  a neighbour  with  whom  Mrs.  De 
Morgan  had  been  acquainted  from  early  life.  It  has  been  pointed 
out  as  singularly  ‘ fitting  that  De  Morgan,  perhaps  the  greatest 
of  all  English  Ceramic  Artists,  should  have  developed  his  art 
within  a stone’s  throw  of  the  site  of  the  old  Chelsea  China  works, 
of  150  years  ago,  and  almost  opposite  the  site  of  Wedgwood  and 
Bentley’s  Chelsea  Establishment.’ 

‘ The  Chelsea  of  to-day,’  writes  Miss  May  Morris,  ‘is  a gilded 
desert  to  those  who  knew  it  then.  Cheyne  Row  was  an  unpre-* 
tentious  old-world  corner  at  the  upper  end  of  which  stood  the 
beautiful  little  house  built  for  G.  P.  Boyce  by  Philip  Webb,  the 
tree-tops  of  its  pleasant  garden  waving  above  the  high  brick 
wall ; from  here  looking  down  on  the  Row  one  caught  glimpses 
of  the  light  on  the  river  and  the  red-sailed  barges  ; and  one  of 
the  charms  of  the  place  was  the  sense  of  adventure  that  a quiet 
corner  gleans  from  that  sight  of  the  way  into  the  open  world.’ 
The  lingering  romance  of  Chelsea,  its  still  visible  links  with 
a picturesque  Past ; the  Old  Church  with  its  lore  of  history 
and  its  monuments  to  a vanished  race  ; above  all,  the  placid 
grey  river  bearing  on  its  breast  the  world’s  traffic  while  reflecting 
the  wayward  moods  of  cloud  and  sunshine — all  made  a strong 
appeal  to  De  Morgan  which  never  diminished  throughout  the 
forty-six  years  which  he  was  destined  to  reside  in  the  locality. 

In  those  early  days  he  would  cross  the  old  wooden  bridge 
then  leading  to  Battersea,  and  pausing  midway,  would  remind 
himself  of  the  favourite  superstition  connected  with  it.  For 
the  Chelsea  of  that  day  believed  firmly  that  seven  currents  of  air 
met  in  the  centre  span  of  the  bridge  with  wonderful  health-giving 
properties  ; and  long  years  after  this  superstition  had  died,  De 
Morgan  to  his  delight  found  a carpenter  who  insisted  that  he 
had  had  practical  experience  of  its  truth.  On  a bitter  March 
dav,  fifty  years  previously,  this  man’s  mother  had  taken  him  to 


82 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD 


83 

stand  on  the  bridge  with  his  six  brothers  and  sisters  who  were 
all  suffering  from  whooping-cough,  and  the  value  of  the  cure  was 
surely  proved,  for  not  one  of  them  died,  but — as  the  sceptical 
may  point  out  do  other  children  similarly  afflicted — all  survived 
to  grow  up  hale  and  strong  ! 

Little  as  De  Morgan  dreamed  it,  one  more  romance  was  to 
be  added  to  the  history  of  that  former  river-side  village  in  the 
story  of  the  busy  potter  who  now,  amid  drab,  modern  surround- 
ings, strove  to  weave  things  of  beauty  out  of  his  fertile  brain. 
Yet,  for  a time,  though  deeply  occupied  in  developing  his  pottery, 
he  still  occasionally  drew  designs  for  stained-glass  windows. 
It  was  during  this  transitional  period  in  his  art  that  he  designed 
the  stained  glass  for  a large  drawing-room  which  Sir  Samuel 
Marling  was  adding  to  his  house,  Stanley  Park,  and  also  manu- 
factured lustre  tiles  for  the  hearth  of  the  same  room,  as  well  as 
a set  of  little  boys  smoking,  for  the  chimney  piece  in  the  smoking- 
room  there.  In  reference  to  this,  the  Rev.  George  West,  Sir 
Samuel’s  nephew,  remarks  : — 

' The  Grisaille  work  in  the  windows  is  very  good  ; but  some 
square  divisions  between  the  mullions  are  filled  with  very  large 
heads  of  Shakespeare,  Dante,  etc.,  as  De  Morgan  thought  the 
room  was  to  be  a library.  They  are  too  large  in  scale  ; but  three 
full-length  figures  of  the  seasons  are  very  fine.  About  this  date 
I used  to  go  to  his  mother’s  house  in  Cheyne  Row  pretty  frequently 
on  Sunday  afternoons,  and  it  was  delightful  to  meet  all  the 
celebrities  there,  but  the  newly-fledged  High-art  people  used  to 
pose  and  attitudinize,  and  De  Morgan  used  to  make  great  game 
of  their  affectations.  I also  visited  his  studio  and  used  often 
to  suggest  buying  something  which  took  my  fancy,  but  always 
met  with  the  same  answer,  “ Oh — I don’t  think  I can  spare  that 
just  now  ! ” 

‘ I subsequently  lost  sight  of  him  and  only  many  years  after- 
wards met  him  unexpectedly  in  Florence.  The  tall,  brisk  figure 
was  then  slightly  bowed,  and  iron-grey  locks  had  replaced  the 
chestnut  hair  of  earlier  days,  but  the  identity  of  the  man  was 
unmistakable,  and  I greeted  him  with  delighted  recollection. 
Reminiscences  and  platitudes  were  exchanged,  and  I made  the 
somewhat  hackneyed  remark  that  the  Arno  was  smehing  verv 
badly.  “Yes,”  replied  De  Morgan  thoughtfully,  “ there  have 
been  a good  many  suicides  lately.  But  ” — sniffing  gently — “ I 
don’t  think  it  is  quite  a smell  of  suicide  ! ” * 

Besides  occasionally  reverting  to  stained-glass  work,  De 
Morgan  during  the  early  years  of  his  art  as  a potter  still  continued 
to  paint  a few  pictures  of  a decorative  character  ; but  these 
were  principally  done  with  the  object  of  experimenting  in  pig- 
ments— to  test  some  novel  chemical  process  which  often  resulted 
in  a peculiar  brilliance  and  beauty  of  colouring,  but  which,  in 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


84 

many  instances,  doomed  them  to  perish  prematurely,  owing  to 
the  dryness  of  the  medium  that  he  had  mixed  with  the  paint. 
Of  these,  ‘ The  Alchemist’s  Daughter  * was  one  of  the  most 
successful,  and  a picture  of  St.  George  accompanied  by  a 
Goblin,  in  connexion  with  which  must  be  mentioned  his  first 
acquaintance  with  a lady  who  afterwards  celebrated  it  in 
verse. 

On  Christmas  Day,  1873,  De  Morgan  joined  in  the  festivities 
at  the  Grange  with  the  Burne-Joneses.  ‘ In  the  hall/  writes 
Lady  Burne-Jones,  ‘ there  was  a magic  lantern  and  snap-dragon. 
Charles  Faulkner  and  William  De  Morgan  enchanted  us  all  by 
their  pranks,  in  which  Morris  and  Edward  Poynter  occasionally 
joined,  while  Mrs.  Morris,  placed  safely  out  of  the  way,  watched 
everything  from  her  sofa/  At  this  party,  playing  with  their 
cousins  Philip  and  Margaret  Burne-Jones,  were  little  Rudyard 
Kipling  and  his  brilliant  sister  Alice,  or  Trix,  afterwards  Mrs. 
Fleming,  whose  father,  John  Lockwood  Kipling,  the  son  of  a 
Wesleyan  Minister,  had  married  a sister  of  Lady — then  Mrs. — 
Burne-Jones.  Alice  Fleming  in  later  life  shared  much  of  her 
brother’s  singular  genius,  and  wrote  verses  the  lilt  and  rhythm 
of  which  are  full  of  music.  Some  of  her  most  successful  poems, 
however,  were  said  to  be  written  while  she  was  in  a trance  ; and, 
on  De  Morgan’s  picture  of  St.  George,  she  sent  him,  fully  twenty 
pears  after  that  Christmas  party,  what  she  terms  ‘ some  rough 
verses  anent  your  picture  ’ which,  she  explains,  were  written  in 
automatic  writing. 


St.  George  in  the  Transvaal 

He  lost  his  way  at  eventide 
And  wandering  where  the  paths  divide. 
He  found  a goblin  by  his  side 
A satyr  child, 

Whose  look  was  wild. 

The  day  drew  on  to  eventide. 

Ah ! good  St.  George,  at  eventide. 
Choose  not  a goblin  for  thy  guide. 

Or  things  of  terror  may  betide 
Before  moonrise, 

Beneath  thine  eyes  ; 

Go  forth  alone  where  paths  divide. 

St.  George  knew  well  the  goblin  lied 
But  yet  he  took  him  for  his  guide 
And  on  through  shadows  dappled,  pied. 
He  led  the  Knight, 

At  fall  of  night, 

Until  they  reached  the  water-side. 


The  Alchemist’s  Daughter 
William  De  Morgan  pinxit 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD 


85 


St.  George’s  own  betrothed  bride 
Prayed  for  him  still  at  eventide 
Within  the  chapel  of  St.  Vide. 

A world  away 
She  knelt  to  pray  : 

He  needed  prayer  with  such  a guide. 

The  blue  waves  kissed  the  bouldered  beach, 

Far  on  the  billows  out  of  reach, 

There  shone  a wondrous  form  to  teach 
Fear  to  a Knight, 

A faery  sight  : — 

The  satyr  child  laughed  on  the  beach. 

A sea  nymph  with  gold  rippled  hair 
Rocked  on  the  ripples,  free  from  care. 

She  had  no  soul,  she  was  so  fair, — 

St.  George,  I pray. 

Look  not  that  way, 

Poor  mortal  strength  has  much  to  bear. 

Queen  Mary,  pity  now  thy  Knight 

For  he  is  in  an  evil  plight 

Standing  alone — twixt  nymph  and  sprite— 

Ah  Princess  pray 
A world  away — 

Keep  watch  and  vigil  all  the  night. 

The  Princess  is  so  very  far — 

As  distant  as  the  evening  star; 

The  nymph  is  near  withouten  bar. 

The  Knight  is  young, 

Her  honeyed  tongue 
Would  win  Apollo  from  his  car. 

Full  many  a Knight  at  eventide 
Still  wanders  on  through  paths  untried. 

While  loved  ones  pray 
A world  away — 

For  his  dear  feet  that  go  astray  ! 

Ere  long  De  Morgan’s  wealth  of  imagination  and  earnestness 
of  endeavour  brought  about  one  happy  result  in  the  development 
of  his  pottery — a noticeable  extension  of  output.  His  small 
kilns,  erected  in  a shed  at  the  end  of  the  back  garden  in  his  new 
home,  soon  proved  inadequate  to  his  needs.  A few  doors  higher 
in  the  street,  No.  36,  was  a spacious  old  house  with  a larger 
garden,  known  as  Orange  House,  which  stood  upon  the  site  now 
occupied  by  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  of  the  Holy  Redeemer, 
and  this  De  Morgan  proceeded  to  rent  from  Mr.  Wickham  Flower 
as  a show-room  and  workshop,  while  still  continuing  to  reside  at 
No.  30.  An  old  coach-house  which  stood  between  the  north 
side  of  Orange  House  and  Upper  Cheyne  Row  made  an  excellent 
shelter  for  the  bigger  kiln  which  he  now  proceeded  to  set  up, 


86 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

while — despite  the  previous  disastrous  experience  in  Fitzroj 
Square — a flue,  with  happy  recklessness,  was  carried  up  one  oi 
the  old  chimneys  of  the  house.  The  first  floor  was  given  up  tc 
the  leading  painters  in  his  employ.  The  show-room,  with  a 
store-room  at  the  back,  occupied  the  whole  ground  floor.  Foi 
himself  De  Morgan  reserved  a room  on  the  second  floor  which 
he  used  as  a studio,  and  in  which  he  often  slept  when  working 
late  at  night. 

It  was  characteristic  that  he  started  his  occupation  of  his 
new  premises  with  a catastrophe  due  to  his  impatience  to  get 
under  way.  It  is  essential  to  go  to  work  very  cautiously  with 
a new  kiln,  and  to  test  it  thoroughly  before  attempting  to  fire 
any  contents.  But  De  Morgan  had  on  hand  an  order  for  a 
thousand  tiles  of  a fan-shaped  flower  pattern  which  he  called 
the  B.B.B.,  after  the  firm  Barnard,  Bishop  and  Barnard.  Anxious 
to  complete  this,  at  his  very  first  firing,  when  the  heat  was  at 
its  strongest,  he  blew  the  top  of  the  new  kiln  off,  and  the  order 
for  the  B.B.B.  was,  as  he  expressed  it,  * temporarily  re-named 
the  D.D.D.  ! ’ 

Already  prominent  amongst  his  painters  in  those  early 
days  were  Charles  and  Fred  Passenger.  The  former,  who  was 
a cripple,  worked  with  De  Morgan  for  nearly  thirty  years, 
the  latter,  despite  ill-health,  for  twenty-eight.  Their  initials 
appear  on  much  of  his  pottery,  and  their  work  has  a distinctive 
quality  very  apparent.  Dr.  Reginald  Thompson  likewise,  who 
became  a great  friend  of  De  Morgan,  took  part  in  the  designing, 
and  some  of  his  productions  and  reproductions  are  extremely 
clever,  particularly  those  of  animals  and  birds,  in  which  he 
excelled.  He  and  De  Morgan  would  vie  with  each  other  in 
inventing  grotesque  beasts  and  monsters,  and  laugh  like  happy 
schoolboys  when  either  succeeded  in  evolving  some  more  than 
usually  fantastic  creature.  As  a result  of  this  friendship,  Dr. 
Thompson  eventually  married  De  Morgan’s  sister  Annie,  and 
their  three  brilliant  sons  inherited  much  of  the  talent  of  their 
mother’s  family. 

Another,  but  younger,  artist  of  great  skill,  whose  work  belongs 
to  a rather  later  date,  was  Joe  Juster,  the  vases  which  he  painted 
and  initialled  deserving  to  rank  amongst  some  of  the  finest  work. 
In  De  Morgan’s  employ  likewise  were  half  a dozen  girls  who  were 
engaged  on  Dutch  and  other  tiles,  and  who  occupied  a room  in 
one  of  the  adjacent  houses  in  Upper  Cheyne  Row. 

Mr.  Reginald  Blunt,  in  a delightful  chapter  on  ' Etrurians 
in  Chelsea,’  describes  how  De  Morgan’s  painters  enjoyed  their 
labours  in  their  pleasant  abode  ‘ where  the  workshop  was  not, 
as  later  at  Merton  and  Fulham,  away  from  the  cheery  haunts 
of  humanity,  and  where  the  ‘ carriage  folk  ’ visiting  the  show- 
room below  enlivened  their  window  view,  and  the  feeling  that 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD  87 

one  or  other  of  their  productions  was  at  that  moment  finding 
a purchaser  downstairs  gave  a touch  of  lively  interest  and  reality 
to  their  doings.  De  Morgan  was  constantly  in  and  about,  working 
out  designs  upstairs,  counselling  and  correcting  the  decorators, 
meeting  friends  and  visitors  below,  or  superintending  the  packing 
of  a kiln  in  the  outhouse  ; and  towards  evening  would  often  be 
heard  a big  voice  shouting  “ Bill ! ” and  footsteps  mounting 
the  stairs  three  at  a time  like  a schoolboy’s,  which  told  of  the 
arrival  of  William  Morris  with  ruffled  hair  and  indigo-stained 
fingers,  keen  to  discuss  some  new  project  or  just  to  hear  how 
things  were  going  with  his  friend.’1 

‘ Many  a time,’  relates  Miss  Morris,  ‘ when  our  Hammersmith 
quartette  paid  a visit  to  the  Chelsea  trio,  we  would  go  round  to 
Orange  House  after  tea,  and  spend  part  of  the  long  summer 
evening  wandering  through  the  house  and  garden  eager  over 
the  latest  experiment.  There  were  times  when  a kiln  spoilt 
cast  a slight  cloud  on  the  gathering  in  spite  of  the  gentle  courtesy 
of  our  friend,  who  would  not  even  mention  the  mishap  ; times 
when  a pot  that  had  roused  no  special  expectation  came  out  a 
triumph  of  shining  colour  amongst  the  ruin  of  a whole  firing ; 
there  were  “ spoilt  ” pieces  that  one  could  not  help  loving  for 
some  special  quality  in  them — in  short  a whole  chapter  of  the 
story  which,  passing  under  the  eyes  of  those  familiar  with  the 
building  up  of  a craft,  was  alive  with  incidents  hailed  and  followed 
with  keenest  interest.’ 

But  of  the  wearing  anxiety  connected  with  the  work — the 
need  for  a cool  head  and  a brave  heart  braced  to  meet  failure, 
Mr.  Blunt  can  speak  from  experience. 

‘ No  one,’  he  records,  ‘ who  has  not  been  actually  engaged  in 
fine  pottery  work  can  quite  realize  the  strain  and  tension  of  the 
firing  of  a big  pottery  kiln,  in  which,  it  may  be,  hundreds  of 
pounds’  worth  of  decorative  work,  and  months  of  arduous  labour, 
are  put  to  the  hazard  of  the  flames  ; when  a whiff  of  unregulated 
draught,  an  ill-secured  saggar,  a few  degrees  more  or  less  of 
furnace  temperature,  a slight  misjudgment  of  the  critical  moment 
of  completion — any  one  of  the  dozen  swiftly  changing  conditions 
—may  mean  all  the  difference  between  success  and  disaster. 
More  than  once  I have  been  by  William  De  Morgan’s  side  at 
these  supremely  critical  moments  and  admired  the  coolness  and 
quiet  resource — the  high-pitched  voice  never  quitting  its  resonant 
drawl — which  marked  the  excitement  of  a big  issue  in  the  balance. 
But  the  end,  whatever  it  was,  was  sure  to  reveal  the  rare  good 
traits,  the  grit,  perseverance,  and  invincible  good-humour ; 
boyish  delight,  it  may  be,  in  a fine  thing  finely  achieved  ; at 
the  worst,  an  object  lesson  or  a clue  won  and  registered,  with  a 
smile,  from  failure.’ 

1 The  Wonderful  Village , by  Reginald  Blunt,  p.  174. 


88 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


To  Mr.  Shaw  Sparrow,  De  Morgan  later  described  certain 
details  of  his  process  thus  : — 

* (i)  The  wondrous,  varied  beauty  of  lustre  depends  on  the  decom- 
position of  a metallic  salt,  usually  copper  or  silver. 

‘ (2)  The  salt  is  made  into  a paint  by  means  of  a gum  fluid  and  lamp 
black,  the  latter  being  used  to  enable  the  painter  to  see  distinctly  his 
design. 

* (3)  The  design  is  painted  on  the  smooth  enamel  or  glaze  after  the 
glaze  has  been  fired. 

* (4)  I use  tin  glaze,  as  I find  it  sensitive  to  lustre  work. 

* (5)  After  the  design  painted  on  the  glaze  is  dry,  the  pot  or  dish  is  . 
fired  again. 

‘ (6)  In  the  old  Persian  tiles,  wood  provided  all  the  heat.  With  a 
coke  (or  a gas)  kiln,  at  a given  moment,  when  the  heat  has  produced  a 
certain  tint  and  glow  of  incandescent  effect,  burning  chips  of  wood  are  put 
inside  the  kiln  ; then  the  minute  and  heated  particles  of  carbon  in  the 
smoke  combine  with  the  oxygen  of  the  salt,  setting  free  the  metal,  which 
is  left  in  a finely-divided  state  fixed  on  the  enamel’s  surface.’ 

To  the  uninitiated,  primarily  in  consequence  of  the  uniformity 
demanded  in  tile  production,  the  gulf  is  not  always  apparent 
which  separates  the  original  work  of  the  genuine  artist  from  a 
mere  mechanical  reproduction  of  printed  designs.  Of  this  fact 
De  Morgan  was  keenly  aware,  and  in  regard  to  it  he  wrote  as 
follows  to  Mr.  Shaw  Sparrow  : — 

* The  painting,  as  you  know,  is  executed  not  on  the  tiles  but  on  thin 
paper.  The  colour  used  is  the  ordinary  underglaze  colours  (or  at  least 
one  ordinary  ditto),  the  paper  is  attached  to  the  tile  face  down,  the  pattern 
reversing,  and  the  paper  burns  away  under  the  glaze. 

‘ There  has  been  some  confusion  of  ideas  in  connexion  with  this 
process  between  it  and  printing,  as  in  ordinary  etched  plate  printing, 
block-printing  as  in  wall-papers,  and  stencilling.  The  confusion,  I believe, 
has  been  possible  only  in  minds  where  the  last  three  processes,  all  totally 
distinct,  were  already  plunging  chaotically  against  one  another.  The 
tiles  printed  in  my  way  are  painted  line  by  line  and  tint  by  tint,  just  as 
much  as  pictures  in  exhibitions,  and  are  just  as  little  to  be  described  as 
prints  as  such  pictures  would  be  after  they  had  been  relieved  and  trans- 
ferred to  another  canvas.  The  Madonna  di  San  Sisto,  for  example,  is, 
quite  distinctly,  not  a print  in  any  sense  of  the  word. 

‘ Of  course  the  fact  that  the  tiles  of  one  pattern  are  all  alike,  contributes 
to  the  idea  that  they  are  printed.  But  things  that  are  painted  alike  are 
alike,  and  the  reasons  these  have  to  be  painted  so  are  of  a purely  com- 
mercial nature.  Nevertheless  the  system  is  thoroughly  unwholesome. 
Things  painted  by  hand  have  no  value  unless  the  qualities  that  give  value 
to  the  hand-painting  are  present ; and  in  my  opinion  the  sooner  the 
acquiescence  in  the  commercial  demand  for  exact  uniformity  comes  to  an 
end  the  better.  Repetition  work  ought  to  be  very  cheap,  and  done  by 
repeating  processes.’ 

One  difficulty  with  which  De  Morgan  had  to  contend  was 
the  lack  of  unity  of  interpretation  between  himself  and  the 
draughtsmen  on  whom  he  depended  for  the  reproduction  of  his 
ideas.  The  weakness  of  all  modern  craftsmanship  is  an  over- 


William  De  Morgan  fecit 

[ Tile  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Halsey  Ricardo. 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD 


89 

refined  finish  ; and  he  was  keenly  alive  to  this  trouble ; the 
designer  and  the  draughtsman  being  often  so  dissimilar  in 
temperament  that  the  former  had  to  copy  the  latter  instead  of 
interpreting  him  ; and  if  the  copying  became  too  mechanical  and 
laboured,  much  of  the  spontaneity  of  the  original  was  inevitably 
lost.  On  one  design  still  in  existence  De  Morgan  himself  has 
noted  for  his  fellow-worker  : * I want  you  to  use  your  own  dis- 
cretion as  much  as  possible  J ; and  there  were  times  when  the 
reproduction  of  his  work  was  as  out  of  harmony  with  the  spirit 
of  his  intention  as  can  be  a symphony  of  Beethoven  under  the 
hands  of  an  unskilled  musician. 

Thus  the  pottery  done  directly  under  his  personal  super- 
vision alone  bears  the  stamp  of  his  individual  genius.  In  other 
specimens,  although  his  designs  were  utilized  by  his  workmen, 
the  subtle  grace  of  the  original  lines  and  the  vitality  of  the  original 
conception  was  too  often  lost  or  marred.  An  old  workman  who 
laboured  with  him  early  in  his  career,  used  to  relate  how  De 
Morgan  was  so  particular  with  all  work  which  came  under  his 
direct  inspection  that  often  after  a vase  was  quite  finished — to 
the  superficial  observer  exquisitely  hand-painted  and  ready  for 
baking — he  would,  if  he  did  not  consider  it  was  absolutely  flaw- 
less, toss  it  relentlessly  on  the  floor  and  smash  it  into  a thousand 
pieces. 

At  all  times  so  absorbed  was  he  in  creating  and  supervising 
that  he  would  forget  all  besides.  Reminded  that  it  was  long 
past  his  dinner  hour,  he  would  rush  off  to  the  nearest  baker’s, 
buy  a piece  of  bread,  and  returning  in  haste  would  eat  it  absently 
while  continuing  his  examination  or  direction  of  the  work  going 
on  around  him.  This  absorption  in  the  creative  and  constructive 
part  of  his  business  involved  a corresponding  indifference  to  its 
prosaic  side,  and  it  is  said  that,  more  than  once  he  forgot  to  sign 
the  cheques  when  he  paid  his  men — a lapse  which  they  treated 
with  good-humoured  indulgence,  often  omitting  to  point  it  out 
till  the  wages  again  fell  due  upon  the  week  following. 

There  indeed  existed  between  master  and  men  a cheery 
camaraderie  totally  different  from  the  usual  status  of  employer 
and  employed.  The  factory  was  more  like  some  private  guild, 
in  which  there  was  a community  of  interest.  Each  man  recog- 
nized that  he  was  part  of  a great  whole  in  which  the  humblest 
worker  was  necessary  to  the  success  at  which  all  alike  aimed ; 
and  from  the  smallest  boy  employed  in  laying  ground  and  colour 
and  glaze  on  the  plain  tiles  and  brick  facings,  each  member  of 
that  little  fraternity  was  inspired  with  a feeling  of  personal  pride 
in,  and  personal  responsibility  for,  their  united  achievement. 
Nor  was  there  one  who  did  not  share  in  the  triumph  when  the 
master  pronounced  his  satisfaction  over  some  rare  and  lovely 
specimen  which  had  issued  in  glowing  perfection  from  its  ordeal 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


90 

by  fire.  Yet  De  Morgan’s  highest  praise  was  usually  a boyish 
expression  of  delight.  ‘ That  is  very  jolly  ! ’ he  would  say 
briefly ; and  only  the  vibration  in  his  voice  would  reveal  the 
strain  of  past  tension,  and  the  inexpressible  joy  of  the  creator  in 
the  thing  victoriously  created. 

At  this  date,  De  Morgan  did  not  make  his  own  biscuit ; he 
employed  for  his  lustre-ware  large  dishes  such  as  were  exported 
to  Persia  and  India  for  use  as  rice  dishes,  while  the  tiles  and  pots 
were  mostly  painted  on  a red  clay  body  which  came  from  Poole, 
Dorset,  or  was  supplied  by  the  Stourbridge  Fire  Clay  Co.,  though 
a few  were  made  with  clay  from  the  Battersea  Crucible  Works. 
All  tiles  manufactured  by  him  during  this  period,  however,  may 
be  distinguished  from  those  of  a later  date  by  the  raised  bars  on 
the  reverse  side.  Meanwhile,  like  William  Morris,  he  lamented 
the  appearance  of  London  houses — dull  buildings  in  a dull  atmo- 
sphere, from  which  the  soot-grime  could  only  be  removed  by  the 
tiresome  process  of  re-painting.  It  ought  to  be  practicable, 
Morris  maintained,  to  clean  all  houses  in  a dirty  city  by  turning 
on  a hose  ; and  to  De  Morgan  it  seemed  that  the  only  exterior 
decoration  at  once  suitable  and  picturesque  under  such  conditions 
were  tiles,  which  were  at  once  gay  and  washable,  if  only  they 
could  be  made  to  resist  the  vagaries  of  a changeable  climate. 

'At  some  date  in  the  early  seventies,’  he  wrote  later,  ‘ I was 
struck  by  the  fact  that  the  employment  of  tiles  in  European 
buildings  never  approached  in  extent  the  use  that  I have  always 
understood  has  been  made  of  them  in  other  countries,  especially 
in  Persia.  This  seemed  particularly  noticeable  in  external  work. 
In  my  frequent  conversations  with  architects,  I noticed  that 
the  reason  invariably  alleged  for  this  last  was  that  the  tiles  would 
not  bear  the  frost  or  hold  tight  on  cement  or  mortar.  Observa- 
tion confirmed  this.  I also  remarked  that  tiles  pointed  at  as 
having  these  defects  were  always  the  pressed  dust  tiles,  or  Minton 
tiles  (so-called,  because  the  invention  of  the  press  was  either 
Herbert  Minton’s,  or  because  he  bought  the  patent).  In  time 
I came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  artificially  compacted  clay 
iiffered  in  molecular  structure  from  that  of  natural  shrinkage 
from  the  wet.  It  is  more  absorbent,  or  rather  absorbs  with 
greater  capillary  attraction  (for  I doubt  the  same  bulk  of  pressed 
tile  absorbing  as  much  water  as  one  of  ours  ; but  I don’t  know). 
Of  course  I did  not  then  know  that  tiles  I made  myself  from  wet 
clay  would  stand  frost  and  wet.  I only  believed  it.’ 

Thus  De  Morgan,  having  found  that  it  was  not  much  more 
expensive  to  make  his  own  tiles  than  to  buy  them,  experimented 
with  diligence  and  discovered  that  clay  such  as  he  manufactured 
and  baked  personally  would  answer  satisfactorily  for  purposes 
cf  external  facing  in  architecture.  The  result  of  this  conclusion 
will  be  referred  to  later. 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD 


91 

Besides  his  experiments  in  this  matter,  his  inventions  in 
connexion  with  his  work  were  many  and  various.  He  always 
designed  his  own  kilns  and  chimneys ; he  planned  a clever 
revolving  grate  ; and  he  devoted  much  time  to  the  construction 
of  grinding  mills.  Amongst  the  sketches  which  he  made  in 
regard  to  the  latter,  one  shows  the  grinding  process  from  the 
breaking  up  of  the  grist  to  grinding  to  the  finest  powder. 
Another  shows  balls  upon  balls,  from  large  series  to  small  ones, 
grinding  ever  finer  and  finer.  He  further  invented  a process- 
painting in  oils,  in  which  glycerine,  employed  as  a medium,  was 
productive  of  a remarkable  richness  of  colouring ; also  a new 
process  of  glass-stain  ; as  well  as  a method  of  ceramic  casting 
which  obviated  the  loss  of  sharpness  in  the  forms  involved  when 
covering  over  the  design  with  a glaze — a loss  noticeable  in  the 
Della  Robbia  ware. 

Mr.  Blunt  points  out  how,  ‘ contradictory  as  it  sounds,  it  was 
perhaps,  to  some  extent,  the  wide  range  of  William  De  Morgan’s 
inventive  and  creative  ability  which  tended  in  a measure 
to  hamper  the  success  of  the  pottery.  Apart  altogether  from 
the  creation  of  designs,  his  chemical  investigations  into  the 
qualities  and  kiln-behaviour  of  various  bodies,  calcines,  frits, 
and  glazes,  and  the  practical  improvements  he  introduced  in  the 
design  of  ovens  and  kilns,  and  the  regulations  of  temperatures 
and  draught,  were  of  course  an  essential  and  most  valuable  part 
of  the  work.  . . . But  the  versatile  genius  for  contrivance  and 
improvements  which  he  inherited  from  his  father  was  not,  as  he 
said,  to  be  impounded,  either  aesthetically  or  technically ; and 
was  devoted  impartially  also  to  the  evolution  of  telegraph  codes, 
of  tile  pattern  indexes,  of  systems  of  accounts,  of  machinery 
design,  of  stock  reference  lists,  and  other  side  issues  which  poorer 
brains  could  have  tackled  well  enough.  De  Morgan’s  mind  was 
ever  full  of  original  methods  and  ideas  on  all  sorts  of  subjects 
. . . and  he  was  always  loath  to  accept  preconceived  systems 
of  doing  things  until  he  had  made  trial  of  his  own.’1  Thus  among 
his  papers  still  exist  bundles  of  carefully  written  treatises  on 
mechanical  questions  covering  an  amazing  variety  of  subjects, 
each  disquisition  revealing  an  astonishing  grasp  of  the  matter 
with  which,  for  the  time  being,  he  was  coping. 

One  of  his  former  workmen,  Mr.  Bale,  contributes  some 
interesting  recollections  of  these  methods,  which  are  best  given 
in  his  own  words  : — 


Mr.  Bale’s  Narrative. 

* It  is  about  fifty  years  ago  I was  sent  to  Mr.  De  Morgan,  on 
the  recommendation  of  Mr.  William  Morris,  as  painter.  This 

4 The  Wonderful  Village , pp.  187-8. 


92  WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

was  the  first  time  I ever  saw  anything  of  tile  and  pottery  work ; 
everything  was  so  strange  and  fascinating  that  it  acted  like  a 
spell  upon  me,  and  I could  not  resist  studying  it  night  and 
day. 

' Well,  the  first  thing  I had  to  do  was  to  outline  on  a piece  of 
glass  the  design  in  brown  colour,  same  as  is  used  in  glass  painting 
— I subsequently  found  out.  This  piece  of  glass  with  the  design 
was  fired,  then  given  to  me  with  sheets  of  tissue  paper  cut  about 
8 inches  square,  then  a solution  was  made,  tinted  green.  I had 
to  dip  the  tissue  paper  in  the  solution,  lay  it  on  some  blotting 
paper  to  take  up  the  superfluous  water,  then  I had  to  paint  on  the 
glass  (with  the  design  on  it)  a solution  of  gum  and  glycerine 
around  the  pattern,  pick  up  the  damp  paper  and  lay  it  even  over 
the  design,  then  paint  on  the  paper  the  design  in  different  colours 
when  thoroughly  dry,  then  gently  pull  the  paper  off  the  glass 
and  lay  it  aside  to  be  eventually  stuck  down  with  a solution  of 
soluble  glass  upon  Dutch  enamelled  tiles.  This  was  given  to  the 
kiln  man  who  covered  it  with  a powdered  soft  glass,  then  put  it 
into  the  kiln  to  fire. 

‘ Mr.  De  Morgan  at  this  date  often  used  Dutch  enamel  tiles,  it 
was  a long  time  before  he  made  his  own  tiles.  When  he  got  his 
own  (which  were  always  made  of  fire-clay)  he  had  to  get  a white 
ground,  this  white  ground,  or  paste,  was  made  of  silica,  and  was 
the  medium  of  sticking  the  paper  paintings  on  to  the  tiles.  This 
paste  was  extremely  good  ; but  unfortunately  there  was  always 
likely  to  be  trouble — and  one  which  was  hardly  ever  got  over,  as 
it  used  to  split  up  in  little  holes,  consequently  they  had  to  be 
touched  up  and  re-fired.  I maintain  that  this  was  the  cause  of 
a great  deal  of  loss,  and  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  the  vases  and  plaques 
in  the  lustre  and  Persian  designs,  he  could  never  have  kept  on 
with  the  expensive  business. 

‘ Also  he  never  painted  straight  on  to  the  tiles,  like  the  vases, 
he  did  them  on  tissue  paper.  . . . Every  Persian  vase,  or 
nearly  so,  turned  out  in  his  pottery  had  a starting  by  his  own 
hand  ; of  course  often  he  would  supply  drawings  to  be  carried 
out  by  his  painters, — but  while  he  superintended  the  work  he 
never  allowed  any  of  us  to  put  our  own  designs  on. 

* I remember  one  occasion  when  I took  it  upon  myself  to  break 
through  this  rule  and  finish  a pot  I had  been  all  day  at  work  on. 
Mr.  De  Morgan  would  begin  a design,  say  with  a flower  or  a bit 
of  ornament,  and  then  tell  us  to  put  just  so  many  around  ; and 
we  had  to  wait  sometimes  hours  at  a time  before  he  came  back, 
and  meanwhile  we  did  not  dare  to  put  another  little  bit  here  or 
there.  Well,  on  this  particular  pot  there  was  just  a little  space 
left  to  finish  the  design,  and  I had  been  waiting  such  a very  long 
time  that  at  last  I didn’t  think  it  could  make  any  difference  if  I 
just  finished  it  the  same  as  the  rest.  No  sooner  had  I done  it, 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD  93 

however,  than  he  comes  to  finish  it,  and  directly  he  says — “ Why 
did  you  put  that  in  ? ” 

‘ I answered  (quite  simply),  “ I thought  it  wouldn’t  matter 
and  would  save  time  ! ” 

‘ “ I thought ! ” he  repeated — “ Please  understand  I don’t  pay 
you  to  think  ! If  you  think  again,  you  must  think  elsewhere ! ” 

* Ever  after  that  I took  care  not  to  think,  but  calmly  waited. 
It  taught  me  a lesson  for  the  future,  although  he  wasn’t  cross 
about  it.  I must  say  he  was  a very  kind-hearted  man  to  ail  who 
worked  for  him,  and  always  thinking  of  the  welfare  of  his  men. 

‘ I remember  seeing  him  make  his  own  engravings  for  illus- 
trations of  a Nursery  book  written  by  his  sister ; 1 it  was  a 
very  clever  dodge — this  is  how  it  was  done.  He  would  get  a 
sheet  of  window  glass  ; upon  that  he  spread  a very  thin  coating 
of  his  paste,  or  white  ground,  which  he  used  for  his  tiles,  just 
simply  let  it  dry,  without  heating  it,  and  he  then  used  a fine 
needle  and  scratched  or  engraved  the  subject,  just  as  anyone 
would  do  an  engraving  on  steel  1 And  where  he  wanted  greater 
depth  in  the  block,  he  piled  his  paste  high  up.  When  all  was 
then  dried  by  the  fire  he  pours  over  it,  to  the  depth  of  a metal 
block,  say  three-quarters  of  an  inch  of  molten  sulphur  or  brim- 
stone. This  used  to  come  clean  away,  and  he  would  send  this 
block  of  sulphur  to  the  printers  and  they  could  print  direct  from 
it,  but  on  account  of  the  pressure  they  used  to  make  a metal  cast 
instead.  I should  very  much  like  to  get  one  of  those  Nursery 
books  illustrated  by  him ; they  will  be  very  valuable  as  a speci- 
men of  his  work. 

* I remember  when  he  was  experimenting  to  get  a material  for 
making  mosaics  he  tried  several  times  by  spreading  his  paste  on 
both  sides  of  a sheet  of  window  glass,  baking  it,  and  absolutely 
splitting  the  sheet  in  two.  I also  was  trying  with  him  at  the 
same  time,  and  he  allowed  me  to  take  some  of  his  tile-patterns  or 
paintings  on  the  tissue  paper  which  I took  to  a man  who  made 
ink  bottles,  and  got  him  to  throw  a sheet  of  molten  glass  over 
the  papers  on  an  iron  plate  ; but  it  was  not  a success — no  doubt 
if  they  had  been  rolled  out  while  hot  it  would  have  been  success- 
ful. 

* Then  I tried  his  paste  upon  a wet  tile,  and  got  Frank  lies,  who 
was  his  kiln  man,  to  fire  it,  and  it  came  clean  away ; but  Mr. 
De  Morgan,  being  a chemist  to  the  backbone,  adopted  it  by  using 
a solution  that  was  always  used  for  his  mosaics. 

* He  and  Mr.  Morris  tried  a lot  of  mosaic  work.  The  very 
first  piece  executed  by  Mr.  De  Morgan  was  a very  large  (almost 
life-size)  mosaic  ; it  took  me  about  eight  weeks  to  do.  I believe 
he  sent  it  to  America.  It  was  the  Virgin  sitting  down  with  the 


1 On  a Pincushion , by  Mary  De  Morgan,  published  1877. 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


94 

Book  open  on  her  lap  ; the  colours  were  simply  magnificent — 
the  dress  a most  beautiful  blue. 

‘ Mr.  Morris  was  always  coming  round  to  get  ideas  from  Mr. 
De  Morgan,  and  would  carry  off  his  finest  work.  Mr.  De  Morgan 
just  let  him  take  it  and  never  bothered.  We  used  to  hide  fine 
pots  sometimes,  as  we  didn’t  like  them  going. 

‘ There  is  a book  in  existence  somewhere — perhaps  stolen — a 
large  book  made  out  of  brown  paper  with  a number  of  small 
figures  in  white  paper  stuck  on  the  brown  by  Mr.  De  Morgan. 
They  were  very  wonderful. 

4 Mr.  De  Morgan  was  an  extraordinary  man,  and  could  do 
anything  he  turned  his  mind  to.  I certainly  think  all  the  years 
I have  known  him  he  was  the  cleverest  man  I ever  came  across. 
But  I wonder  why  it  is  that  writers  who  write  about  lustres  in 
England,  never  recognize  him  as  he  ought  to  be.  I have  just 
seen  a book  where  all  the  modern  (so-called)  producers  of  lustre 
are  highly  spoken  of,  but  he  is  just  casually  mentioned  as  one 
who  did  tiles ; anyone  would  imagine  from  this  that  he  was 
only  a tile-maker,  and  didn’t  do  fine  pottery  ! That’s  all  the 
thanks  his  countrymen  give  him  after  spending  several  fortunes 
on  it  not  only  in  perfecting  the  Lustre,  but  being,  I maintain,  the 
first  to  revive  that  beautiful  lost  Art,  as  well  as  improving  on  the 
glorious  Persian  colouring — absolutely,  I may  say,  giving  it 
away- — actually  showing  others  how  to  do  the  Lustre.  Yet  not 
a writer  has  yet  given  him  his  due  ! 

* Another  book  I have  read  about  Lustres — well,  it  seems  to 
me  they  don’t  know  anything  about  it,  because  what  they  call 
Copper  Lustre  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  Gold  Lustre — they 
don’t  know  the  difference  ! I maintain  Mr.  De  Morgan’s  copper 
and  moonlight,  or  silver  Lustre,  is  the  true  style  that  Gubbio 
did.  A lot  of  people  think  that  the  Majolica  is  made  from  copper, 
but  this  is  easily  tested  in  a very  simple  way  without  injuring 
the  lustre,  by  just  putting  the  tiniest  spot  of  Fluoric  acid  on  it 
— if  it  is  copper  it  will  immediately  turn  green  ; if  gold,  or  any 
other,  it  will  turn  brown  or  muddy  colour/ 

We  shall  have  occasion  to  refer  again  to  the  reminiscences 
of  Mr.  Bale,  who,  it  must  be  added,  states  that  he  was  never 
allowed  by  his  master  to  see  the  firing  process.  For  the  present 
it  may  be  well  to  glance  at  De  Morgan’s  own  account  of  the 
technical  side  of  his  work.  In  1892  he  read  a paper  before  the 
Society  of  Arts  for  which  he  was  given  the  Gold  Medal,  and 
although  this  belongs  to  a date  later  than  the  period  with  which 
we  are  now  dealing,  yet  it  epitomizes  his  efforts  from  the  com- 
mencement of  his  career.  It  shows  convincingly,  moreover,  not 
only  his  mastery  of  the  chemical  and  mechanical  details  con- 
nected with  that  work,  but  his  profound  knowledge  of  the 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD 


95 

evolution  of  the  whole  Art  of  Pottery  from  almost  prehistoric 
times.  For  although  still  fond  of  describing  himself  lightly  as 
a dabbler  in  ceramics,  he  was,  as  in  all  else  to  which  he  devoted 
attention — no  trifler,  and  his  eager  craftsmanship  never  resulted 
in  a corresponding  superficiality  of  method.  After  tracing  the 
development  of  both  experiment  and  achievement  in  Lustre 
from  the  remote  ages,  he  remarks  : — 

* In  the  catalogue  of  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851,  which  is  a sort  of 
death  register  of  the  arts  of  antiquity,  not  a hint  of  lustred  pottery  appears. 
The  modern  revivals  began  with  those  at  the  Ginori  factory  at  Doccia 
near  Florence,  and  those  of  Carocci  at  Gubbio.  ...  (A  story  is  told  by 
Marchese  Brancaleone  of  the  re-discovery  at  Gubbio,  that  an  old  painted 
unfired  piece,  of  the  Giorgio  time,  was  found  in  what  was  supposed  to  be 
his  old  kiln  house.  One  of  these  fell  into  a scaldino,  and  remained  in 
contact  with  the  fuel.  Next  day  it  was  found  that  a lustre  had  developed 
on  it  !) 

‘ In  spite  of  the  Doccia  and  Gubbio  reproductions,  an  impression 
continued  to  prevail  that  the  process  was  a secret.  I used  to  hear  it  talked 
about  among  artists,  about  twenty-five  years  ago,  as  a sort  of  potter’s 
philosopher’s  stone.  At  that  date  the  attempts  to  reproduce  it  in  England 
had  met  with  only  very  partial  success,  although  an  Italian  had  gone  the 
round  of  the  Staffordshire  potteries  showing  how  to  do  it.  Even  now  it 
is  sometimes  spoken  of  as  a secret  by  newspaper  writers.  My  attention 
was  attracted  to  some  very  interesting  work  of  Massier,  of  Cannes,  in  the 
last  Paris  Exhibition,  by  a newspaper  paragraph  headed  “ Re-discovery 
of  a Lost  Art.” 

‘ In  fact  re-discovery  appears  to  have  dogged  the  footsteps  of  the 
lustres  from  the  beginning.  I re-discovered  them  myself  in  1874  or 
thereabouts,  and  in  the  course  of  time  some  of  my  employes  left  me,  and 
re-discovered  them  again  somewhere  else  ! — I do  not  think  any  re-dis- 
coveries  of  this  sort  contributed  in  any  way  to  the  very  general  diffusion 
of  the  process  in  the  potteries  at  this  moment.  . . . Perhaps  we  may 
make  a new  departure  and  consider  that  the  process  is  as  well  known  as 
any  other  process  in  the  arts  ; at  any  rate  I will  contribute  what  I can  to 
make  it  so,  by  telling  all  I know  of  it  myself. 

‘ I got  nothing  from  Piccolpasso,  as  I did  not  see  the  work  till  long 
after,  nor  from  any  printed  information,  except  the  chemical  manuals  I 
had  read  in  youth.  The  clue  was  furnished  by  the  yellow  stain  of  silver 
on  glass.  When  over-fired  this  shows  iridescence,  which  is  often  visible 
on  the  opaque  yellow  visible  from  the  outside  on  stained- glass  windows. 
I tried  the  stain  on  Dutch  tiles,  and  found  them  unsusceptible  in  the  glass 
kiln,  but  in  a small  glass  muffle,  I found  that  both  copper  and  silver  gave 
a lustre  when  the  gas  was  damped  down  so  as  to  penetrate  the  muffle.  I 
pursued  my  investigation,  and  after  an  interruption  occasioned  by  setting 
the  house  on  fire  and  burning  the  roof  off,  I developed  the  process  in  Chel- 
sea. This  was  in  1873-4,  since  which  time  it  has  not  varied  materially, 
although  I have  tried  many  experiments,  with  a view  to  improving  it.’ 1 

With  regard  to  these  experiments  which,  at  the  date  when 
this  paper  was  read,  had  extended  over  a period  of  twenty  years; 
the  reader  is  recommended  to  study  De  Morgan’s  own  account, 

1 * Lustre-ware/  by  William  De  Morgan.  Journal  of  the  Society  of 
Arts,  pp.  761-763,  June  24,  1892. 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


96 

which  sufficiently  proves — modestly  as  he  would  have  depre- 
cated this  conclusion — the  tireless  patience,  ingenuity  and 
learning  which  he  had  brought  to  bear  upon  this  subject.  ‘ As 
far  as  the  technical  difficulties  of  simply  evolving  a copper  or  a 
silver  lustre  go/  he  says,  ‘ I see  no  reason  why,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  Arabs  and  Italians,  every  discovery  should  not  be  totally 
unconnected  with  every  other/  And  assuring  his  audience  that 
if  ‘ anyone  sees  his  way  to  using  the  materials  to  good  purpose, 
my  experience,  which  I regard  as  an  entirely  chemical  and 
mechanical  one,  is  quite  at  his  disposal/  he  states  : — 

4 As  we  now  practise  it  [the  lustre  process]  it  is  as  follows.  The  pigment 
consists  simply  of  white  clay  mixed  with  copper  scale  or  oxide  of  silver, 
in  proportion  varying  according  to  the  strength  of  colour  we  desire  to  get. 
It  is  painted  on  to  the  already  fused  glaze  with  water,  and  enough  gum- 
arabic  to  harden  it  for  handling  and  make  it  work  easily — a little  lamp- 
black, or  other  colouring  matter,  makes  it  pleasanter  to  work  with.  I have 
tried  many  additions  to  this  pigment  . , . but  without  superseding  the 
first  simple  mixture.  . . 

But  although  De  Morgan  repudiated  the  idea  that  the  art 
of  reproducing  the  old  lustre-ware  was  extinct  till  he  revived 
it,  the  consensus  of  opinion  unhesitatingly  attributes  its  recrud- 
escence to  his  efforts, 1 as  was  also  the  revival  of  the  beautiful  old 
Persian  ware,  with  its  wonderful  blues  and  greens,  so  vivid  in 
hue  that  they  pale  all  colours  with  which  they  come  in  contact.2 
Still  more  is  the  fact  now  being  accepted  that  he  was  the  greatest 
ceramic  artist  whom  England  has  produced,  not  excepting 
Wedgwood,  who,  in  certain  technical  details,  and,  above  all,  in 
mastery  of  design,  failed  to  attain  to  the  high  level  reached  by 
De  Morgan.  At  the  date,  however,  when  the  latter  read  the 

1 The  Encyclopedia  Britannica  in  a long  article  on  ‘ Pottery  ’ published 
before  De  Morgan  attained  to  the  zenith  of  his  career,  stated  : — 

4 Mr.  De  Morgan  of  Chelsea  and  Merton  has  perhaps  made  the  greatest 
advances  of  all,  having  re-discovered  the  way  to  make  and  use  the  beauti- 
ful thickly-glazed  blues  and  greens  of  the  old  Persian  ware. 

4 He  uses  these  splendid  colours  in  designs  conceived  and  drawn  with 
the  old  spirit,  but  of  sufficient  originality  to  make  them  a real  stage  in  the 
development  of  Ceramic  Art ; not  a mere  archaeological  revival  of  styles 
and  methods  which  have  long  since  ceased  to  have  a significance  and  life 
of  their  own.’ 

Mr.  Ashbee,  Civic  Adviser  to  the  City  of  Jerusalem,  also  remarks : — 

* Much  of  the  decorative  work  in  such  places  as  the  Dome  of  the  Rock 
consist  of  wonderfully  glazed  tiles.  The  secret  of  this  work  was  lost  and 
you  can  see  how  far  the  Staffordshire  people  are  from  recovering  it.  There 
has  only  been  one  Englishman  who  knew  anything  about  it,  and  that  was 
William  De  Morgan.’ 

2 The  present  writer  has  in  her  possession  the  original  Persian  tile 
which  first  suggested  to  De  Morgan  the  idea  of  the  wonderful  colours  of 
the  ancient  pottery — a tile  circa  1400,  with  inch-thick  Silurian  earth  still 
attached  to  the  back  ; and  the  depth  of  its  rich,  limpid  colour  is  in  no 
way  distinguishable  from  De  Morgan’s  reproductions. 


Bottle  with  Bulbous  Body  and  Long  Neck, 
painted  in  blue,  in  two  shades  of  lustre,  with  ships  in  a sea-fight 
Mark,  W.  De  Morgan,  Fulham.  F.P. 

Height,  23  inches.  Diameter,  10  inches. 

William  De  Morgan  fecit 
At  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum. 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD  97 

paper  to  which  we  have  been  referring,  one  of  his  audience, 
Mr.  Forbes  Robertson,  pointed  out  that  ‘ Mr.  De  Morgan  was 
an  example  such  as  one  rarely  met  with,  of  a combination  of 
artistic  training  and  a scientific  habit  of  mind ; it  was  for  lack 
of  artistic  training  that  our  craftsmen  in  the  applied  Arts  had 
hitherto,  in  a great  measure,  failed  to  produce  the  artistic  results 
which  were  so  much  to  be  desired,’  while  Mr.  Phene  Spiers 
added  : — 

* He  had  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  De  Morgan  a great  many 
years,  and  it  was  very  seldom  one  met  with  such  a combination  of  qualities 
— with  scientific  training,  artistic  perception,  and  a vivid  imagination,  all 
of  which  were  apparent  in  his  productions.  It  was  interesting  to  notice 
how  the  scientific  side  of  his  character  gave  him  such  a mastery  of  the 
technical  part  of  the  process  : while  his  artistic  powers  gave  beauty  to 
the  objects  produced.  It  was  very  fortunate  for  this  branch  of  art  that 
it  was  taken  up  by  a man  of  so  many-sided  a nature.’ 1 

The  speaker  at  that  date  had  little  premonition  of  another 
strange  development  of  De  Morgan’s  ‘ many-sided  nature  ’ which 
the  years  were  to  bring  ; but  there  was  one  element  in  the  potter’s 
work  wherein  lay  the  true  secret  of  its  success,  and  this  De  Morgan 
himself  did  not  minimize. 

‘ I believe,’  he  concluded,  * we  have  learnt  all  there  is  to  know  of  the 
chemical  and  mechanical  side  of  the  art,  as  it  was  known  to  the  ancients. 
What  remains  to  be  discovered  in  order  to  produce  original  work,  equal 
to  that  of  the  Renaissance,  is  not  a technical  mystery,  but  the  secret  of 
the  spirit  which  animated  the  fifteenth  century  not  only  in  Italy,  but  all 
through  Europe.  We  have  got  the  materials  and  many  more,  but  the 
same  causes  that  forbid  the  attainment  of  new  beauty  have  stood 
between  us  and  the  revival  of  the  old  beauty.  . . . Some  day  there 
may  be  a new  imagery  and  a new  art.’ 

And  it  was  in  a measure  this  ‘ new  imagery  and  new  art  ’ 
which  De  Morgan  himself  inaugurated  ; for  the  element  in  his 
work  which  eluded  all  imitators — the  stamp  of  an  individual 
genius — could  not  be  conveyed  even  by  his  generous  willingness 
to  share  the  result  of  his  labours  with  other  strivers. 

It  is  indeed  the  psychology  of  the  man  as  an  artist  even 
more  than  the  technical  triumph  of  the  potter  as  a craftsman 
which  makes  the  appeal  to  many  lovers  of  the  things  he  created. 
For  in  that  work  they  read  so  unerringly  the  character  of 
the  worker — the  mingling  of  poetry  and  fantasy,  of  idealism, 
of  inexhaustible  imagination,  of  irrepressible  humour.  The 
graceful  sweeping  lines,  the  delicate  curves,  the  intricate  orna- 
mentation with  which  we  are  familiar — and  in  the  elaboration 
Df  which  almost  as  much  loving  care  is  devoted  to  the  back  of 
a plate  as  to  the  front — are  all  subordinate  to  some  idea  which 

1 Reprinted  in  the  Journal  of  the  Society  of  Arts , June.  1892. 

G 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


98 

seems  half  a jest  and  half  a vision  from  the  Fairy-land  of  child- 
hood. Goggle-eyed  fish,  swimming  in  stiff  procession  through 
curving  waves,  provide  the  essential  foreground  to  some  weird 
ship  of  ingenious  construction  which  dominates  the  scene.  In 
one  design,  a shark  is  rising  out  of  the  water  to  stare  at  a vessel 
the  bird  figure-head  of  which  returns  the  gaze  with  an  uncanny 
suggestion  of  consciousness.  In  other  sea-pieces,  such  as  he 
loved,  the  sea-serpent  and  uncouth  creatures  of  the  deep  entwine 
or  peer  through  patterned  tracery  accentuating  the  mystery  of 
things  marine.  On  a dish  of  different  suggestion,  in  colouring 
like  the  soft  haze  of  some  ‘ forest  primeval/  a dragon,  all  shimmer- 
ing azure  and  silver  scales,  sits  biting  his  own  tail  amid  interlacing 
purple  grapes.  Fantastic  beasts,  with  an  anatomy  all  their 
own  and  a sinister  menace  wholly  convincing,  are  as  instinct 
with  life  and  motion  as  are  Landseer’s  faithful  reproductions 
from  Nature  itself.  Prancing  horses,  graceful  stags,  charging 
bulls,  fierce  tigers,  playful  elephants,  distorted  into  grotesque 
outline  and  utilized  either  as  a central  idea  or  as  part  of  a scheme 
of  decoration,  vie  with  birds  of  equally  bizarre  conception. 
Owls  and  vultures  glow  redly  like  a materialization  of  the  ruddy 
flames  into  which  the  pottery  was  once  thrust ; eagles,  there 
are,  every  plume  of  which  shades  to  a glory  of  changing  colour ; 
peacocks,  the  pompous  conceit  of  which  provokes  laughter ; 
storks  in  prim  array  ; ducks  striding  through  a tangle  of  trailing 
foliage,  with  outspread  wings  glinting  in  gold  and  silver.  Yet 
all  are  monsters  straight  from  Wonderland  ; all  seem  reminiscent 
of  that  little  child  of  the  Nursery  Journal  with  his  ‘ peten  * 
world  peopled  with  creatures  transformed  from  reality  by  the 
magic  of  his  tiny  brain.  And  other  plates  and  pots  might  be 
cited,  of  which  the  charm  is  still  more  elusive — opalescent  plates 
which  seem  an  iridescent  compound  of  moonlight  and  rainbow ; 
silver  plates  which  shade  to  blue ; powder-blue  which  shade  to 
amber  and  mauve  ; copper  which  glow  with  the  radiance  of 
metal,  then  pale  like  vanishing  fairy  gold — infinite  in  colour  and 
design,  the  versatility  of  the  master-mind  which  created  them  is 
always  apparent. 

But,  out  of  her  own  heritage  of  art  and  poetry,  few  have 
caught  the  true  measure  of  De  Morgan’s  inspiration  as  has  Miss 
Morris.  Through  and  beyond  the  mere  dexterity  of  hand  and 
ingenuity  of  brain,  she  can  feel  the  spirit  which  permeates  the 
whole — which  to  her  seems  to  reach  out  from  a far  past  and  to 
stretch  forward  to  an  unfathomable  future  : — 

' A man’s  change  of  style,  as  his  outer  and  inner  self  change  in  the 
journey  through  life,  is  always  a matter  to  be  noted.  De  Morgan’s  designs 
show  types  developing  from  the  simple  and  occasionally  naive  work  of  the 
early  Cheyne  Row  time  to  the  bold  mid-period  with  big  strong  masses 
enriched  with  smaller  ornament,  and  thence  to  the  later  work,  elaborate 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD 


99 

and  intricate  and  full  of  curious  invention.  The  time  when  he  was  studying 
the  finest  of  the  potter’s  art  at  its  source  produced  some  splendid  echoes 
of  Asia  Minor  and  Persian  types,  and  later,  his  passion  for  the  sea  expressed 
itself  in  patterns  that  have  to  my  mind  a curious  relation  with  Mycenaean 
work.  No  one  would  call  it  an  attempt  at  reproduction  ; it  is  rather  as 
if  the  same  forms  suggested  the  same  type  of  ornament  to  inventors  so 
far  sundered  in  time  and  space,  as  though  the  same  impulse  towards  sea 
things,  the  same  passion  for  the  twilight  gardens  of  the  deep,  had  moved 
the  nineteenth-century  craftsman  and  those  dwellers  around  the  Middle 
Sea. 

‘ Some  of  the  decorations  on  the  pots  and  vases  . . . are  wonderfully 
subtle  both  in  form  and  colour  ; two  designs  are  specially  in  my  mind  : 
one  (a  pot)  has  a ground  of  green-white,  on  which  is  a lustre  fish  under  a 
network  of  green-white  ; another  (a  vase)  has  a pale  pinkish  lustre  ground 
and  lustre  figures  under  a scale  pattern  of  white.  The  atmospheric 
impression  obtained  by  this  plane  upon  plane  is  remarkable,  and  the 
simplified  concentration  of  the  symbol-drawing  stimulates  imagination 
and  produces  the  feeling  of  reality — the  vivid  dream-realism  which  is 
more  especially  the  possession  of  artist  and  poet.  The  deeps  of  the  sea — 
fishes  seen  behind  clustering  sea-weed  in  a pale  green  light — are  suggested 
in  several  of  these  “ plane  upon  plane  ” patterns.  . . . The  finest  periods 
of  art  give  us,  in  textiles,  in  ceramics  and  other  crafts,  countless  examples 
of  one  pattern  laid  upon  another,  but  I cannot  at  the  moment  recall  any 
example  of  note  in  which  the  slighter,  mechanical  pattern,  reversing  the 
usual  practice,  is  used  as  a veil  for  the  principal  design.  I hope  it  is  not 
straining  a point  to  dwell  on  this  feature  in  some  of  De  Morgan’s  patterns  ; 
the  suggestion  of  an  essential  seen  through  shimmering  water  or  other 
screen  of  detail ; it  occurs  to  me  as  a quite  unconscious  expression — 
perhaps  notable  only  to  anyone  on  the  look  out  for  such  expressions — of 
the  reaching  through  a tangle  to  things  that  count  : peering  through  the 
ordered  pattern  of  trivial  matters  to  the  real  life  behind.  This  is  doubtless 
reading  big  significance  into  a small  decorative  effort,  and  one  is  far  from 
desiring  the  primrose  by  the  river’s  brim  to  be  anything  but  a primrose  ; 
but  as  half  the  beliefs  of  long-dead  races  are  embodied  in  the  symbol 
drawing  of  their  “ decorative  art  ” (to  use  the  tiresome  phrase  in  mere 
shorthand  parlance)  one  may  be  forgiven  for  pausing  over  any  indication 
that  seems  to  link  the  searchings  of  a modern  mind  with  the  searchings 
of  the  ancient  world. 

' The  special  bent  of  De  Morgan’s  invention  was  in  winding  beast- 
forms  and  great  sweeping  lines  round  difficult  shapes  ; the  more  difficult 
the  space  to  be  filled  and  the  more  fantastic  the  beast-pattern,  the  more 
enjoyment  is  evident.  The  story  told  is  vivid  and  apt  . . . many  an 
episode  of  the  drama  of  nature  has  been  concentrated  into  the  symbol 
drawing,  the  first  word,  and  it  may  be  the  latest,  in  all  human  decoration 
of  life  on  this  earth.  One  design  for  a plate  he  has  named  “ Stranded 
fish,”  a monstrous  creature  taking  up  one-half  of  the  circle,  while  the 
other  is  occupied  by  tiny  men  in  tiny  boats  hurrying  to  secure  the  spoil. 
Another  he  labels  “ Sea-birds’  Island,”  another  “ The  Snake-eater,” 
another  shows  a lizard  dancing  gaily  on  his  tail  and  smiling.  These  and 
many  others  are  racy  jokes — and  so  De  Morganesque  in  their  daring  and 
enjoyment ! Among  the  designs  for  tiles  may  be  noted  a splendid 
wild  boar,  an  amazing  chameleon,  a serpent  charming  a rabbit,  a 
frankly-bored  leopard — a handsome  beast,  and  a hippo  shedding  absurd 
giant  tears.  There  is  a spoonbill,  too,  trying  to  get  its  bill  into  a De 
Morgan  pot  (with  a background  of  Chelsea  Church  and  the  factory  chimneys 
of  the  Surrey  side  of  the  Thames). 

‘ The  freedom  of  his  studies  for  designs  puts  them  (if  I may  once  more 


100 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


note  the  comparison)  on  a level  with  the  spirited  drawing  of  Mediterranean 
ancient  art.  Some  bird-drawings,  in  two  sweeps  of  the  brush,  have  a 
Chinese  swiftness  and  crispness.  ...  In  the  midst  of  all  this  rich  and 
varied  decorative  invention  one  comes  upon  pots  and  vases  which  are 
severely  simple — just  a fine  spacing  of  dark  and  light,  and  a sightly  dis- 
position of  some  plain  line-and-spot  bordering.  They  are  masterly  in 
their  effect  of  noble  emphasis. 

‘ The  colouring  of  this  ware,  with  its  Eastern  force  and  depth,  needs  no 
description,  though  one  may  note  the  principal  colours  used,  the  poly- 
chromatic pieces  have  a magnificent  dark  blue,  and  real  malachite  green  ; 
of  course  a manganese  purple  of  that  uneven  “ atmospheric”  quality  that 
is  familiar  in  Eastern  art ; an  Indian  red  is  used,  also  orange,  but  more 
rarely,  and  a pure  lemon  yellow  ; black,  of  course,  of  different  depths. 
These  are  the  usual  colours  ; but  to  name  them  is  to  give  no  idea  of  their 
quality  and  arrangement — to  tell  how  the  jewel-like  birds  fly  across  a 
blue-black  sky,  how  the  pallid  fish  shine  through  green  water  ; how  the 
turquoise  and  purple  flowers  star  the  wooded  lawns,  how  the  python 
glitters  in  his  forest  lair  ; such  is  our  potter’s  handling  of  incomparable 
material.’ 1 

The  quotation  from  the  above  article  is  given  at  some  length 
in  order  to  convey  adequately  the  happy  manner  and  matter  of 
it.  Meanwhile,  to  summarize  certain  conclusions,  two  points 
may  be  emphasized.  First,  that  in  De  Morgan’s  successful 
productions  there  is  a peculiar  softness  combined  with  brilliance 
to  which  none  of  his  imitators  have  attained.  Secondly,  that  a 
noticeable  sense  of  life  and  suppleness  is  characteristic  of  all  the 
living  forms  which  he  represents,  and  renders  them  easily  dis- 
tinguishable from  the  work  of  other  artists  by  whom  such  types 
are  utilized  as  a mere  form  of  inanimate  decoration.  Even  a 
superficial  observer  may  remark  that  the  most  grotesque  bogey 
De  Morgan  ever  painted  is  alive  and  can  boast  an  individuality 
all  its  own  1 


Further,  much  has  been  said  at  all  times  respecting  the 

1 ‘ William  De  Morgan.’  Article  in  the  Burlington  Magazine,  August 
%nd  September,  1917,  by  Miss  May  Morris. 


THE  CHELSEA  PERIOD 


ioi 


‘ secret  * of  De  Morgan’s  process  ; yet,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned 
this  ‘ secret  ’ — the  outcome  of  experiment  with  pigments  and 
close  study  extending  over  forty  years — was  one  which  he  was 
always  ready  to  share  with  fellow-workers.  Only  to  the  idle 
inquirer  who  believed  himself  about  to  fathom  a possible  source 
of  wealth,  did  De  Morgan  ever  turn  a deaf  ear. 

A story  runs  that  one  day  a man  of  this  description  tried 
diplomatically  to  learn  the  process  employed  by  De  Morgan. 
' I wish  you  would  describe  to  me  how  you  first  set  to  work  ? ’ 
he  said. 

And  De  Morgan  told  him. 

* And  what  do  you  do  next  ? ' said  the  friend. 

Again  De  Morgan  told  him. 

‘ And  finally  ? ’ asked  the  questioner,  scarcely  able  to  keep 
the  note  of  triumph  out  of  his  voice. 

* Oh — finally  ? ’ said  De  Morgan  with  engaging  ingenuous- 
ness, ' finally , you  see,  I just  label  the  thing  two-and-sixpence 
— and  it  doesn’t  sell ! ’ 

In  truth  his  wife  that  was  to  be,  in  the  years  that  were  to 
come,  solved  and  defined  the  mystery  which  baffled  the  un- 
initiated. ‘ The  secret,’  she  said,  in  answer  to  a similar 
inquiry,  ‘ is — William  himself  ! * 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 
1881-1885 

IT  must  not  be  imagined  from  the  foregoing  chapter  that  De 
Morgan's  increasing  success  in  the  manufacture  of  pottery 
was  accompanied  by  any  corresponding  financial  prosperity. 
From  the  humble  beginning  when  he  experimented  with  a 
solitary  workman  to  aid  him,  to  the  stage  when  he  kept  a factory 
going  with  a number  of  employees  and  busy  kilns  at  work, 
marked  an  advance  due  solely  to  his  enthusiasm  and  energy. 
To  run  an  experimental  business  such  as  he  was  doing,  with  no 
substratum  of  capital — a business,  moreover,  which  required  a 
never-ceasing  outlay  and  weekly  cash  payments — was  to  live 
perpetually  on  the  brink  of  a precipice  ; and  with  his  complete 
absence  of  any  commercial  instinct,  it  is  only  surprising  that  he 
so  far  succeeded  in  balancing  expenditure  and  receipts  as  to  be 
able  to  keep  disaster  at  bay.  4 It  is  not  well  organized/  he  said 
once  quaintly  of  his  factory,  ' it  is  very  ill  de-morganized,  in 
fact  ! ’ and  characteristic  stories  still  survive  of  his  method  of 
dealing  with  prospective  purchasers  which  are  curiously  reminis- 
cent of  the  conduct  of  his  grandfather,  William  Frend,  when  the 
latter  emptied  his  wine-casks  in  the  streets  of  Canterbury. 

One  day  a millionaire  arrived  in  the  show-room  at  Orange 
House  full  of  anxiety  to  choose  some  handsome  pot — the  more 
expensive  the  better.  De  Morgan  himself  wandered  round  with 
the  would-be  purchaser,  pointing  out  some  of  his  most  successful 
achievements.  Then  an  idea  occurred  to  him.  ‘ What  do  you 
want  it  for  ? ' he  queried. 

‘ I want  it  for  a wedding  present/ 

* Is  it  for  So-and-so's  wedding  ? ' inquired  De  Morgan,  naming 
a big  function  which  was  to  take  place  the  following  week. 
‘Yes,’  was  the  rejoinder. 

‘ Oh,  my  dear  chap/  exclaimed  De  Morgan  with  anxiety, 

‘ don’t  give  the  bride  any  more  of  my  pots — she's  inundated  with 
them  ! You  take  my  advice — just  go  round  to  Mappin  & Webb’s 
md  choose  her  a nice  useful  piece  of  silver.  She’ll  like  it  ever 
50  much  better  I ' 


102 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


103 

The  prospective  customer,  somewhat  amazed,  thanked  De 
Morgan  for  his  disinterested  suggestion,  and  hurried  off  to  choose 
a piece  of  silver. 

On  another  occasion  a man  came  intending  to  give  a large 
order  for  some  tiles  with  zoological  designs. 

‘ What  do  you  want  them  for  ? ' asked  De  Morgan. 

‘ It  is  to  tile  my  nursery/  was  the  reply.  ‘ They  would  be 
washable  and  clean/  , 

‘ Oh,  if  that's  what  you  want  them  for/  said  De  Morgan,  ‘ do 
let  me  advise  you — my  tiles,  you  see,  would  come  expensive,  and 
they  chip  very  easily.  Just  you  go  to  Minton — he  provides  a 
nice  cheap  tile  quite  good  enough  for  your  purpose,  and  it  would 
save  you  no  end  of  money  ! ’ 

Again  a grateful  customer  departed — to  spend  his  money 
elsewhere. 

Nor  did  De  Morgan  play  his  cards  well  when  other  opportunities 
offered.  On  one  occasion  a Royal  Lady  signified  her  gracious 
desire  to  inspect  his  pottery.  Having  walked  through  his  show- 
room, she  purchased  a tile  worth  a pound  and  asked  for  the  loan 
of  a panel  worth  fifty,  the  design  of  which  she  wished  to  copy. 

‘ I would  suggest,  ' said  De  Morgan  firmly,  ‘ that  you  first  copy 
the  tile  you  have  bought,  and  by  that  time  I shall  know  if  I can 
spare  the  panel/' 

The  Princess  took  the  hint — and  her  departure ; but  De 
Morgan’s  methods  sufficiently  demonstrate  why  his  succds 
d’estime  was  slow  to  assume  the  guise  of  more  tangible  assets. 

Nevertheless,  to  all  who  knew  him,  his  inherent  simplicity  of 
character  seemed  as  inevitable  a part  of  a unique  personality  as 
were  his  originality  of  outlook  and  quaint,  dreamy  fashion  of 
speech.  Of  the  latter — enhanced  by  the  long  intervals  of  silence 
which  had  won  him  the  name  of  the  Mouse — it  has  already  been 
pointed  out  that  it  is  impossible  to  convey  any  adequate  impres- 
sion, since  the  happy  nonsense  of  his  remarks,  reduced  to  paper 
and  print,  loses  its  peculiar  merriment.  But  the  ripple  of  laughter 
which  followed  him  through  this  grey  world  still  finds  an  echo 
in  the  hearts  of  his  friends. 

A few  stories  may  be  quoted  at  random. 

Anything  peculiar  in  names  always  arrested  his  attention.  On 
hearing  one  day  that  Mrs.  Burne-Jones  was  going  to  Nettleship 
to  have  her  eyes  tested,  he  observed  reflectively,  ‘ I wonder  how 
Nettleship  likes  to  be  addressed — “ Yes,  your  Nettleship  ! ” and 
“ No,  your  Nettleship  ! ” ’ Another  day,  after  an  animated 
conversation  had  been  going  on  around  him  for  some  time,  in 
which  he  took  no  part — remaining  throughout  apparently 
absorbed  in  thought — a friend  at  last  ventured  to  ask  him  what 
he  was  thinking  of.  All  present  expected  to  hear  that  he  had 
been  revolving  some  abstruse  problem  connected  with  his  work. 


104  WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

and  his  answer  came  as  a shock  : 4 1 was  thinking/  he  said 
seriously,  ‘ how  expensive  it  would  be  for  a centipede  if  it  wore 
boots  ! * 

On  another  occasion,  watching  the  multitude  of  twittering 
sparrows  disporting  themselves  in  a London  garden,  he  observed, 
‘ What  a pity  they  can’t  all  be  inoculated  with  the  song  of 
nightingales  ! ’ 

Once  when  he  was  staying  in  the  country  with  his  old  friend 
Henry  Holiday,  who  was  now  married,  wandering  round  the  hall 
he  noticed  an  elaborate  barometer  hanging  on  the  wall.  In  the 
centre  was  written,  Admiral  Fitzroy’s  remarks ; and  on  the  left, 
‘ When  falling  ’ ; on  the  right,  ‘ When  rising.’  Suddenly,  into 
the  midst  of  the  desultory  conversation  at  the  other  end  of  the 
hall,  penetrated  a small  thoughtful  voice  from  the  spot  where 
De  Morgan  stood  : ‘ I should  have  thought  that  Admiral  Fitzroy’s 
remarks  “ When  falling  ” would  have  been  more  forcible  ! ’ 

During  his  visit,  Mrs.  Holiday  mentioned  to  him  several  novels 
which  she  thought  it  might  interest  him  to  read  ; and  thinking 
afterwards  that  he  might  not  remember  the  right  titles,  she  sent 
him  a written  list.  He  wrote  back  thanking  her  politely  for  her 
kindness,  but  concluded  blandly : ‘ I haven’t  the  slightest 

intention  of  reading  any  one  of  the  books  you  mention  ! ' 

Another  time  she  knitted  him  a scarf  for  his  neck ; and  on 
again  writing  to  express  his  thanks,  he  remarked  : * I shall 
never  now  be  able  to  say  that  I don’t  care  a (w)rap  about  any- 
thing ! ’ 

One  day  she  was  present  with  him  at  a private  view  of  some 
pictures  by  Eleanor  Fortescue  Brickdale.  The  place  was  crowded, 
so  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  move,  and  smartly  dressed 
people,  who  had  ostensibly  come  to  see  the  Exhibition,  were 
treating  it  as  a social  function,  standing  about  talking,  devouring 
sandwiches  and  drinking  tea,  with  their  backs  turned  brazenly 
to  the  beautiful  works  upon  the  walls.  Mrs.  Holiday  remarked 
upon  this  feature  of  the  gathering  to  William  De  Morgan,  and 
he  smiled  a little  sadly.  ‘Yes,’  he  said,  ‘ there  is  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  between  the  elite  and  the  elect ! ’ 

On  another  occasion  he  went  with  her  to  see  some  new  fabrics 
of  artistic  design  which  were  being  exhibited  at  Morris’s.  The 
shopmen  gave  themselves  considerable  airs,  and  behaved  towards 
the  two  inquirers  with  a condescension  which  De  Morgan  resented. 
‘ I wish  to  Goodness/  he  observed  with  unusual  asperity  as  he 
walked  away,  ‘ that  they  would  not  treat  us  as  if  they  were  all 
Ptolemies  ! ’ 

Passing  the  window  of  a well-known  shop  Mrs.  Holiday  once 
saw  there  displayed  some  of  Maw’s  pottery  masquerading  as  De 
Morgan  ware.  Entering,  she  remonstrated  warmly  with  the 
shopman  upon  the  iniquity  of  trying  to  palm  off  any  works  of 


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THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


105 

art  upon  the  public  under  a wrong  name  ; but  failing  to  convince 
the  man  of  his  error,  she  wrote  indignantly  to  ask  De  Morgan  to 
interfere  in  the  matter,  ‘ I shan’t  bother  ! ' he  wrote  back 
placidly ; ‘ imitation  is  the  sincerest  form  of  pottery  ! ’ 

‘ In  the  matter  of  riddles/  recalls  Miss  Holiday,  ‘ he  was  quite 
without  shame.  A few  drift  across  my  recollection  in  their 
boyish  foolishness.  “ Why  is  a serpent  like  the  dome  of  Saint 
Paul’s  ? ” “ Because  it  h(is)s  ! ” “ Why  is  an  Archbishop  cut  in 

halves  like  a man  recovering  from  a faint  ? ” “ Because  he’s 

cornin’  to  (two).”  ’ On  one  occasion  he  said  he  had  invented  an 
excellent  answer  but  could  not  find  a question  to  it.  The  whole 
completed  ran  thus  : — 

* Where  did  Ovid  meet  Julia’s  father  ? 

Ovid  Methimathisorffices.’ 

But  one  feature  of  De  Morgan’s  conversation  never  underwent 
any  change  in  youth  or  age.  In  his  presence  no  one  was  allowed 
to  pursue  a quarrel,  and  if  the  talk  became  ill-natured,  he  usually 
contrived  to  change  the  topic,  or  to  rob  it  of  its  venom.  On  one 
( ccasion  some  people  had  been  adversely  discussing  the  character 
of  a well-known  man,  and  De  Morgan,  for  a time,  maintained 
silence.  At  length  he  interrupted  : * I cannot  think,’  he  said, 
* why  you  are  all  so  down  on  poor  C.  R.,  except  ’ — apologetically 
— ‘ that  he  is  unmarried  to  a Dutch  lady  ! ’ 

During  the  early  part  of  De  Morgan’s  career  he  snatched  little 
time  for  relaxation ; nevertheless,  the  atmosphere  of  his  home- 
life,  with  its  constant  influx  of  visitors,  social,  scientific  and 
artistic,  formed  an  essential  part  of  his  environment,  as  did  the 
constant  companionship  of  his  sister  Mary. 

From  a brusque,  clever  child,  the  latter  had  grown  into  a 
talented  woman,  who  amused  people  by  her  witty  sayings  and 
quick  repartees.  In  appearance  she  was  in  marked  contrast  to 
her  brother,  being  small  and  slight,  with  china-blue  eyes  and 
regular  features,  while  her  quick,  sharp  voice  accentuated  a 
somewhat  abrupt  manner. 

As  already  mentioned,  De  Morgan,  in  1877,  illustrated  a book 
of  Fairy  Tales  published  by  her,  entitled  On  a Pincushion.  She 
afterwards  published  The  Necklace  of  Princess  Fiorimonde , 
illustrated  by  Walter  Crane,  and  other  children’s  books,  the  last 
of  which,  The  Wind  Fairies , published  in  1900,  was  dedicated 
to  Angela,  Dennis  and  Clare  Mackail,  the  grandchildren  of 
Burne-Jones.  In  1887  she  also  brought  out  anonymously  a 
striking  novel  of  which  her  brother  suggested  the  title — A Choice 
of  Chance.  It  is  an  intricate  and  unusual  plot,  well  told,  and 
with  the  interest  cleverly  sustained  throughout ; but  unfortu- 


io6 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


nately  she  published  it  under  the  pseudonym  ' William  Dobson/ 
adopting  the  surname  of  her  grandfather’s  family,  and  thus 
sacrificing  much  of  the  interest  which  would  have  attached  to  it 
had  she  sent  it  out  into  the  world  under  her  own  name.  Un- 
reasonably disappointed  at  its  reception,  she  never  wrote  another  ; 
but  the  gift  of  story-telling  was  evidently  in  the  family ; and 
Sophia  De  Morgan,  whose  realistic  and  graphic  writing  has 
already  been  remarked,  was  herself  the  author  of  a work  of 
fiction  which  she  never  published.  William,  on  the  contrary,  at 
this  date  never  wrote  anything  except  a few  desultory  verses 
scribbled  in  jest.  All  the  accounts  later  promulgated  respecting 
early  manuscripts  written  by  him  and  destroyed  are  entirely 
without  foundation. 

Besides  her  gift  of  penmanship,  Mary  De  Morgan  was  accredited 
with  a remarkable  power  of  fortune-telling  which  she  used  to 
exercise  for  the  private  amusement  of  her  friends.  While  her 
brother  was  still  at  40  Fitzroy  Square,  Miss  Laura  Hertford, 
who  occupied  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  gave  a party  to  about 
a dozen  people,  at  which  were  present  Mary  and  Annie  De  Morgan, 
with  William,  and  Mr.  Sandwick,  who  relates  the  following  stories  : 

Meeting  Mary  for  the  first  time  on  this  occasion,  he  had  his 
hand  told  by  her,  and  on  seeing  it  she  exclaimed  : ‘ But  you 
ought  not  to  be  here  ! Your  Line  of  Life  is  broken  just  before 
this  date  ! However,  as  you  are  here,  it  must  indicate  that  you 
have  recently  had  a most  narrow  squeak  of  your  life.’  ‘ This 
was  true,’  testifies  Mr.  Sandwick  ; ‘ about  six  months  before  my 
doctor  had  given  me  up,  with  a possible  four-and-twenty  hours 
to  live  ! ’ 

At  the  same  party  a more  remarkable  incident  occurred. 
Mary  was  asked  to  ‘ tell  ’ the  hand  of  a house  surgeon  from 
University  College  Hospital,  and  while  glibly  predicting  his  fate, 
she  paused  abruptly  and  refused  to  say  more.  After  he  was 
gone,  her  friends,  feeling  convinced  from  her  manner  that  she 
had  deliberately  left  untold  something  she  had  seen,  begged  her 
to  say  what  this  was.  ‘ I saw  that  he  dies  from  drowning,’  she 
said,  ‘ and  that  his  fiancee  is  also  drowned  by  the  capsizing  of  a 
boat  at  sea,  which  he  will  witness  from  the  shore.’  Little  over 
a year  after  both  events  occurred ; and  the  man  was  drowned  at 
the  same  spot  as  the  girl  to  whom  he  was  engaged. 

Another  time,  however,  when  she  was  telling  fortunes  at  a 
bazaar,  a stranger  came  to  have  his  hand  read.  Mary  foretold 
him  a future  full  of  picturesque  incidents,  one  of  these  being  that 
he  would  go  to  another  country,  and  would  there  meet  with  a 
carriage  accident,  in  consequence  of  which  he  would  fall  in  love 
with,  and  marry,  a girl  whom  he  would  rescue  from  beneath  the 
horses’  hoofs.  Years  afterwards  a man  whom  she  did  not  recog- 
nize came  up  to  Mary  at  a party  and  introduced  himself.  ‘ I 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


107 

have  always  wanted  to  meet  you  again/  he  said.  ‘ Long  ago 
you  told  my  fortune  with  an  amount  of  detail.  It  all  came  true  ! 
I went  to  India,  I there  met  with  a carriage  accident ; I rescued 
a girl  from  beneath  the  horses’  hoofs,  and  I married  her.  Every- 
thing else  that  you  told  me  has  happened.’  4 1 suppose,’  said 
Mary  De  Morgan,  4 that  you  will  not  believe  me  if  I tell  you  that, 
at  that  time  I knew  nothing  about  palmistry — I hadn’t  studied 
it  at  all — but  my  friends  bullied  me  to  help  them,  and  as  it  was 
for  charity,  I did  it.  Everything  that  I told  you  was  just  chance 
— I made  it  up  out  of  my  head  as  I went  along  ! ’ ‘ Then  if  you 

weren’t  a palmist,  you  are  clairvoyant e ! ’ exclaimed  the  man, 
unconvinced;  ‘it  could  not  be  mere  coincidence.’ 

The  younger  generation  of  De  Morgans  had  carried  on  the 
tradition  started  by  their  parents,  and  were  greatly  interested  in 
uncanny  occurrences  and  psychical  research.  They  did  not, 
however,  regard  such  investigations  with  the  profound  seriousness 
exhibited  by  their  mother,  and  indeed  they  inherited  from  their 
father  an  absence  of  bias  and  a keen  sense  of  humour  in  which  she 
was  perhaps  lacking.  It  says  much,  therefore,  for  the  perfect 
harmony  existing  between  her  and  her  son  that  she  did  not 
resent  the  frivolity  with  which  he  occasionally  treated  what  to 
her  were  matters  of  the  utmost  gravity. 

On  one  occasion  she  returned  from  a walk  greatly  perturbed. 
‘ I have  been  in  Battersea  Park,  ’ she  announced  to  a casual 
visitor  ominously,  ‘ and  I had  a terrible  shock — I came  face 
to  face  with  William’s  wraith  ! ’ 

‘ Just  one  of  Ma’s  Bogies  ! ’ explained  William  in  his  high 
falsetto. 

On  another  occasion  she  was  describing  how,  in  a particular 
alley  in  the  neighbourhood,  passers-by  after  dark  complained 
that  things  wTere  hurled  at  them  from  over  a high  wall  ‘ by  evil 
spirits.’  ‘ Why  not  by  some  grubby  little  boy  ? ’ queried  William, 
at  once  effectually  disposing  of  undue  interest  in  the  phenomena. 

In  like  manner  Mary  occasionally  made  jest  of  matters  which 
to  her  mother  were  entirely  convincing.  In  one  instance  when 
the  subject  of  Spiritualism  was  under  discussion  in  a room  full 
of  earnest  believers,  all  profoundly  impressed  with  their  individual 
experiences,  she  threw  her  evidence  into  the  opposite  scale  with 
a decisiveness  which  descended  upon  her  audience  with  the  effect 
of  a bomb-shell.  ‘ I was  at  a seance  lately,’  she  announced  in  her 
clear,  penetrating  voice,  ‘ and  there  were  seven  people  present. 
Each  of  them  had  recently  lost  a relation,  and  they  had  come  to 
communicate  with  the  deceased.  There  was  a materialization, 
and  each  of  the  seven  persons  at  once  recognized  it  to  be  the 
relation  he  or  she  had  lost.  They  all  began  to  quarrel  when  any- 
one else  claimed  it,  and  in  the  end  all  became  violently  abusive. 
I saw  in  it  onlv  the  medium  dressed  up  ! ’ 


io8 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


At  that  date,  however,  there  was  a great  mania  for  all 
Spiritualistic  phenomena.  Table-turning,  introduced  from 
America  circa  1854  and  at  first  a subject  of  ridicule,  had  since 
become  a fashionable  pastime  in  which  believers  and  unbelievers 
alike  dabbled  for  their  entertainment  so  that  the  craze  for 
seances  was  universal. 

While  living  in  Cheyne  Row,  the  De  Morgans  had  for  many 
years  a young  servant  who  exhibited  peculiar  mediumistic 
powers,  and  who  was  much  in  request  at  their  experiments  in 
this  connexion.  Anxious  to  avoid  all  possible  chance  of  trickery, 
William  once  jestingly  begged  the  ‘ spirits  ’ to  transfer  the 
rapping  from  the  table  at  which  they  were  seated  to  a cupboard 
on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  This  promptly  took  place,  all 
subsequent  raps  sounding  loudly  from  that  isolated  article  of 
furniture.  It  may  be  added  that  the  servant-girl  in  question 
died  of  consumption  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  and  for  three 
years  before  her  death  all  mediumship  deserted  her ; although  she 
was  on  one  occasion  offered  ten  pounds  by  a visitor  to  exhibit 
her  former  powers,  she  was  entirely  unable  to  do  so. 

Apart  from  her  Spiritualistic  investigations,  Sophia  De  Morgan 
was  much  interested  in  mesmerism,  which  she  practised  as  a 
healing  factor,  and  respecting  which  she  relates  the  following  : — 

' About  the  year  1849,  or  earlier,  I mesmerized  a girl  of  eleven- 
and-a-half  years  old  for  fits,  which  she  had  had  from  birth.  Her 
mother  was  epileptic  ; but  I have  no  medical  statement  of  the 
nature  of  the  girl's  complaint.  She  was  very  ignorant  and 
stupid,  never  having  been  able  to  learn,  owing  to  her  bad  health, 
The  mother  was  a poor  char-woman  or  laundress,  also  stupid, 
but  honest. 

‘ The  girl  became  clairvoyante  soon  after  the  treatment  began  ; 
but  her  lucidity  was  very  uncertain.  I never  had  reason  to 
believe  in  its  occurrence  except  on  five  or  six  occasions,  on  five 
of  which  it  was  so  thoroughly  proved  that  imposture  was  out  of 
the  question.  I mean  that  she  saw  and  reported  things  of  which 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  have  obtained  any  knowledge  in  her 
normal  state.  . . . She  had  also  the  faculty  of  mental  travelling, 
which  she  showed  plainly  at  least  four  times. 

‘ The  girl  became  very  ill  after  the  treatment  had  gone  on  for 
a few  weeks  ; and  not  knowing  how  to  proceed,  I wrote  to  Dr. 
Elleston,  describing  the  case  and  her  symptoms,  and  asking  his 
advice.  He  told  me  to  persevere  without  fear,  as  it  was  probably 
a crisis  and  would  end  in  recovery.  I went  on  accordingly,  until, 
a day  or  two  after,  a discharge  of  water  from  the  head  com- 
pletely relieved  her,  and  she  had  no  more  fits.  She  entirely  lost 
her  susceptibility  to  Mesmerism  after  this  time. 

* I also  mesmerized  a woman  who  was  pronounced  incurable 
by  Mr.  R.  Quain  and  other  University  College  doctors.  (Mr. 


( 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD  109 

Quain’s  words  to  my  husband  were,  "The  woman  must  die.”) 
She  was  cured  in  about  three  months.  She  became  perfectly  rigid 
after  a few  passes,  and  I could  then  hang  a 12  lb.  weight  for  some 
minutes  on  her  extended  arm.’ 

These  experiments  took  place  when  William  was  a small  boy  ; 
but  in  1877,  Dr.  Carpenter,  in  his  famous  book  on  Mesmerism , 
Spiritualism , etc.,  gave  a misleading  account  of  the  proceedings 
and  particularly  of  the  Professor’s  attitude  towards  them. 
William  forthwith,  in  a spirited  correspondence,  convicted  Dr. 
Carpenter  of  error,  and  forced  him  to  retract,  and  apologize  for, 
his  misstatements. 

In  1882,  Sophia  De  Morgan  published  a Memoir  of  her 
husband ; and  previous  to  its  appearance  William  found  himself 
again  involved  in  an  unexpected  controversy.  Throughout  his 
life,  one  of  his  abiding  characteristics  remained  an  unwavering 
devotion  to,  and  admiration  of,  his  father  ; finding  therefore  the 
accuracy  of  the  latter  called  in  question,  he  once  more  took 
up  the  cudgels  in  defence  of  the  Professor’s  memory. 

On  November  5,  1864,  Augustus  De  Morgan  had  reviewed  in 
the  Athenceum  Herbert  Spencer’s  Principles  of  Biology,  treating 
the  work  with  less  deference  than  the  author  held  to  be  its  due. 
Seeing  that  the  Professor  had  omitted  to  quote  in  full  his 
* proximate  definition  of  Life,’  Spencer,  in  his  Study  of  Sociology, 
drew  attention  to  the  fact,  sharply  criticizing  ' the  perversity  of 
Professor  De  Morgan’s  judgments  ’ and  his  ‘ recklessness  of 
misrepresentation.’  Those  who  wish  to  study  a fair  statement 
of  both  sides  of  the  controversy  can  refer  to  the  Memoir  of 
Augustus  De  Morgan,  where,  on  page  162,  they  will  find  the  case 
set  forth  clearly  by  William  De  Morgan  for  insertion  in  his 
mother’s  book ; but  the  duel  which  ensued  privately  between 
himself  and  the  angry  philosopher  would  fill  a bulky  pamphlet. 
Spencer  at  last  consented  to  remove  the  offending  passage  on 
the  following  terms  : — 

‘ . . . as  I do  not  wish  to  give  needless  pain  to  any  member  of  the  late 
Professor  De  Morgan’s  family,  I will,  in  an  edition  now  going  through  the 
press,  omit  that  part  to  which  you  refer. 

‘ In  the  small  edition,  however,  which  is  stereotyped,  all  I can  do  is  to 
alter  the  plate,  and  replace  this  passage  by  a less  specific  statement — one 
in  which  Prof.  De  Morgan’s  defect  of  judgment  is  commented  upon  in 
general  terms.  That  he  was  prone  to  direct  a microscopic  attention  to 
some  one  element  of  a question,  and,  while  so  doing,  to  ignore  other 
elements  lying  around,  is  a fact  which  not  I only  have  observed,  but  wrhich 
I have  heard  remarked  by  sundry  others.  Much  injustice,  I doubt  not 
quite  unintentional,  has,  in  his  criticisms,  resulted  from  this  peculiarity.’ 

William  De  Morgan  to  Herbert  Spencer. 

* June  8,  1880. 

* I am  quite  convinced  that  you  would  not  willingly  give  pain  to 
anyone — but  the  doctrine  that  the  feelings  of  survivors  ought  to  be  spared 


no 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


would  interfere  so  seriously  with  free  criticism  of  the  works  of  deceased 
authors,  that  I for  one  should  never  urge  it  nor  be  a party  to  its  adoption. 
Better  apply  the  knife  freely  and  when  the  constitution  of  the  patient 
begins  to  suffer,  it  will  be  time  to  talk  of  sparing  the  feelings  of  bystanders. 

‘ Your  criticism  of  my  father  seems  to  me  in  some  respects  far  from 
an  urifair  one  as  it  now  stands.  But  I should  contend  that  it  amounted 
to  no  more  than  this — that  he  was  occasionally  one-sided.  I have  noticed 
in  the  controversies  in  which  he  engaged  that  there  was  an  appearance 
(to  the  uninitiated)  that  other  parties  were  othersided. 

‘ Perhaps  if  I were  obliged  to  say  exactly  what  my  own  experience  of 
his  method  was,  I should  say  that  (when  the  choice  lay  between  two  such 
alternatives)  he  preferred  to  take  a direct  view  of  one  side  of  a pyramid 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  other  three,  rather  than  to  place  his  eye  at  the 
apex,  and  so  get  an  imperfect  view  of  the  three  sides  to  the  exclusion  of 
the  fourth — which  is  certainly  not  an  uncommon  way.  But  in  matters 
where  he  was  closely  concerned,  I think  he  was  just  as  likely  as  others  to 
walk  all  round  the  pyramid. 

‘ As  to  his  accuracy  of  quotation,  I should  never  feel  any  misgiving 
whatever,  in  any  sense  short  of  ascribing  to  him  infallibility.’ 

Over  a year  later  De  Morgan  returned  to  the  attack  and  drew 
fror£  Spencer  a letter  which  is  of  interest  as  it  contains  what  he 
emphatically  states  to  be  his  final  definition  of  Life. 

William  De  Morgan  to  Herbert  Spencer. 

* September  3,  1881. 

* May  I trouble  you  with  an  inquiry  relating  to  the  subject  of  our 
correspondence  of  last  June  twelvemonth. 

* You  will  remember  that  the  matter  in  question  was  a misquotation 
imputed  by  you  to  my  father,  the  late  Professor  De  Morgan. 

‘ I wish  to  ascertain  from  you  whether  you  called  his  attention  at  the 
time  by  letter  or  otherwise  to  the  misapprehension  contained  in  his  review  ? 

‘ I have  not  seen  the  more  recent  edition  of  your  work  but  I presume 
it  is  out,  and  contains  the  note  you  were  so  good  as  to  forward  me  in 
proof. 

‘ I believe  I have  your  final  definition  of  Life  accurately  in  my  memory, 
but  lest  I should  have  wrongly  accepted  (as  such)  another  proximate 
definition,  will  note  it  here,  and  perhaps  you  will  kindly  correct  me  if  I 
am  mistaken. — “ The  continuous  adjustment  of  internal  relations  to  external 
relations .”  I trouble  you  on  these  points  as  I shall  probably  have  an 
opportunity  of  touching  on  the  subject  in  a forthcoming  Memoir  by  my 
mother.’ 


Herbert  Spencer  to  William  De  Morgan. 

‘ September  20,  1881. 

' Sir, — 

‘ I have  delayed  replying  to  your  note  of  September  3,  because 
absence  in  the  country,  where  I had  no  means  of  access  to  the  Principles 
of  Biology,  prevented  me  from  giving  the  exact  words  of  the  definition. 

‘ It  is  well  that  you  have,  as  you  explain,  taken  the  precaution  of 
ascertaining  whether  you  were  right  in  supposing  that  the  definition 
which  you  quote  is  the  final  one,  since  you  would  have,  in  another  way, 
misrepresented  the  facts,  had  you  quoted  it  without  explanation.  The 
definition  which  you  quote,  though  it  is  one  that  I have  finally  given  as  a 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


ill 


brief  and  abstract  form  of  the  definition  previously  arrived  at,  and  one 
which  might  be  conveniently  used  for  certain  purposes,  is  nevertheless 
not  the  one  which  I decided  upon  as  most  specific  and  fitted  for  most 
general  use.  I have  said  that  “ so  abstract  a formula  as  this  is  scarcely 
fitted  for  our  present  purpose,  and  that  its  terms  are  to  be  reserved  for 
such  use  as  occasion  may  dictate.”  The  definition  which  I have  dis- 
tinctly chosen  for  habitual  use  runs  thus — Life  is  “ the  definite  combina- 
tion of  heterogeneous  changes,  both  simultaneous  and  successive,  in 
correspondence  with  external  co-existence  and  sequences .”  It  is  the  last 
clause,  here  marked  in  italics,  which  was  omitted  in  the  proximate  defini- 
tion quoted  by  your  father,  and  the  absence  of  which  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence in  the  meaning. 

* Faithfully  yours, 

‘ Herbert  Spencer.’ 

Some  years  afterwards,  De  Morgan  had  occasion  to  call  on 
Herbert  Spencer,  and  the  interview  was  amicable  on  both  sides. 
Spencer  was  at  that  time  boarding  in  the  house  in  Bayswater 
kept  by  three  old  ladies  who,  amongst  his  friends,  went  irrev- 
erently by  the  name  of  his  harem.  On  his  first  taking  up  his 
residence  with  them,  they  considered  it  necessary  to  entertain 
him,  and  one  of  them  laboriously  set  to  work  to  enliven  him  with 
polite  conversation.  Spencer  bore  it  with  commendable  patience 
for  a space  ; but  at  last,  interrupting  the  flow  of  platitudes,  he 
observed  pointedly,  ‘ Madam,  I am  thinking  how  particularly 
well  you  would  look  seated  under  that  tree  in  the  garden  yonder  ! ’ 
The  lady  took  the  hint  and  left  the  philosopher  to  ruminate  at  his 
own  sweet  will. 

Not  long  afterwards  a friend  of  De  Morgan’s  remarked  to 
Spencer  facetiously,  ‘ I hear  that  you  have  now  a regular  harem  ' 
[pronouncing  this  hare-em]. 

‘ I have  nothing  of  the  sort  ! ’ responded  Spencer  cantanker- 
ously. 

‘ But  De  Morgan  tells  me  that  you  yourself  said  so  ! * 

* I said  nothing  of  the  kind  ! ’ reiterated  Spencer  caustically. 
‘ What  I said  I had  was  a har-reem  ! ’ 

But  Spencer  was  not  the  only  churlish  philosopher  with 
whom  De  Morgan  crossed  lances.  He  used  often  to  go  for  walks 
with  his  neighbour,  Thomas  Carlyle,  on  which  occasions  he  found 
great  difficulty  in  understanding  what  that  tactiturn  companion 
was  saying,  when  at  intervals  he  launched  into  conversation,  so 
broad  was  his  Scottish  accent.  On  account  of  this  known 
intimacy  with  the  great  man,  De  Morgan  was  deputed  to  invade 
him  with  a view  to  enlisting  his  sympathy  in  a scheme  evolved 
by  William  Morris. 

For  long,  Morris  had  seen  and  lamented  the  ruthless  re- 
construction, or  rather  destruction,  of  many  national  treasures 
of  architecture  and  irreplaceable  landmarks  of  history,  while 
none  had  power  to  stay  the  hands  of  ignorant  vandalism.  This 


1X2  WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

was  an  evil  which  he  realized  could  only  be  combated  by  some 
organized  and  permanent  body  which  could  make  its  influence 
felt,  and  he  therefore  inaugurated  a ' Society  for  the  Protection 
of  Ancient  Buildings/  privately  nicknamed  by  him  ‘ The  Anti- 
scrape/ He  pressed  De  Morgan  into  the  service,  and  one  of  the 
first  undertakings  which  the  latter  was  asked  to  tackle  was  to 
secure  the  coveted  name  of  Carlyle  as  a member  of  the  newly- 
fledged  association.  De  Morgan  set  about  his  unwelcome  task 
conscientiously,  but  with  trepidation  ; and  many  years  after- 
wards, for  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Mackail,  the  son-in-law  of  Burne- 
Jones,  he  thus  recorded  his  experiences  : — 

. . Just  at  the  starting  of  the  Society,  Morris  asked  me  to 
propose  to  Carlyle  to  become  a member — I sent  the  prospectus 
to  Carlyle  through  his  niece,  Miss  Aitken,  and  afterwards  called 
by  appointment  to  elucidate  further.  The  philosopher  didn’t 
seem  in  the  mood  to  join  anything — in  fact  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  application  was  going  to  be  fruitless,  but  fortunately  Sir 
James  Stephen  was  there  when  I called,  and  Carlyle  passed  me 
on  to  him  with  the  suggestion  that  I had  better  make  him  a 
convert  first.  However,  Sir  J.  declined  to  be  converted  on  the 
grounds  that  the  owners  or  guardians  of  ancient  buildings  had 
more  interest  than  anyone  else  in  preserving  them,  and  would  do 
it,  and  so  forth.  I replied  with  a case  to  the  contrary,  that  of 
Wren’s  churches  and  the  Ecclesiastical  Commissions.  This 
brought  Carlyle  out  with  a panegyric  of  Wren,  who  was,  he  said, 
a really  great  man  ‘ of  extraordinary  patience  with  fools,’  and  he 
glared  round  at  the  company  reproachfully.  However,  he 
promised  to  think  it  over,  chiefly,  I think,  because  Sir  J.  F.  S.  had 
rather  implied  that  the  Society’s  object  was  not  worth  thinking 
over.  He  added  one  or  two  severe  comments  on  the  contents 
of  space.  I heard  from  his  niece  next  day  that  he  was  wavering, 
and  that  a letter  from  Morris  might  have  a good  effect.  I asked 
for  one  and  received  the  following  : — 

* Horrington  House,  April  3. 

* My  dear  De  Morgan,— 

‘ I should  be  sorry  indeed  to  force  Mr.  Carlyle’s  inclinations  on  the 
matter  in  question  ; but  if  you  are  seeing  him  I think  you  might  point  out 
to  him  that  it  is  not  only  artists  or  students  of  art  that  we  are  appealing 
to,  but  thoughtful  people  in  general.  For  the  rest  it  seems  to  me  not  so 
much  a question  whether  we  are  to  have  old  buildings  or  not,  as  whether 
they  are  to  be  old  or  sham  old  ; at  the  lowest  I want  to  make  people  see 
that  it  would  surely  be  better  to  wait  while  architecture  and  the  arts  in 
general  are  in  their  present  experimental  condition  before  doing  what 
can  never  be  undone,  and  may  at  least  be  ruinous  to  what  it  intends  to 
preserve. 

f Yours  very  truly, 

‘ William  Morris.’ 

The  gist  of  what  follows  lies  in  the  fact  that  Morris’s  prejudice 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


113 

against  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  was  carried  to 
a pitch  of  unreasonableness.  The  works  of  Wren  and  his  suc- 
cessors were  anathema  to  him ; wherefore  his  feelings  at  one 
result  of  De  Morgan’s  mission — and  the  manner  in  which  his 
friends  rejoiced  at  those  feelings — may  be  dimly  imagined. 

‘ Next  day/  continues  De  Morgan,  ‘ I received  from  Miss 
Aitken  a letter  from  Carlyle  to  the  Society  accepting  membership. 
It  made  special  allusion  to  Wren,  and  spoke  of  his  city  churches 
as  marvellous  works,  the  like  of  which  we  shall  never  see  again , or 
nearly  that.  Morris  had  to  read  this  at  the  first  public  meeting, 
you  may  imagine  that  he  did  not  relish  it,  and  one  heard  it  in  the 
way  he  read  it — I fancy  he  added  mentally,  and  a good  job  too  ! 1 

At  the  date  of  this  letter,  Mr.  Mackail  was  collecting  material 
for  his  Life  of  Morris,  and  De  Morgan,  then  casting  his  mind  back 
through  a somewhat  hazy  past,  was  distressed  to  find  that,  out 
of  the  accumulated  reminiscences  of  a lifetime,  only  trivial 
incidents  concerning  his  early  friendship  with  Morris  still  clung 
to  his  memory. 

4 1 have  a good  deal  of  difficulty,’  he  continues,  * in  recalling 
how  much  or  how  little  I knew  Morris  before  this  date,  which  was, 
I suppose,  ’76.  I first  saw  him  in  Red  Lion  Square  . . . and  I 
cannot  reconcile  it  with  reason  that  I knew  him  for  ten  years  after 
that,  and  can  recall  nothing  (by  effort,  at  the  moment — there’s 
no  knowing  what  may  turn  up),  all  through  that  period  ! Any- 
how, memory  is  blank  until  the  foundation  of  the  Ancient  Build- 
ings, when  I went  to  the  first  meeting  at  Q.  Square.  He  asked 
me  to  come  over  to  Horrington  House,  and  one  afternoon  I went, 
and  I remember  he  said  plenty  worth  remembering,  but — can’t 
recollect  what — indeed,  I only  recall  that  he  denounced  a beastly 
tin-kettle  of  a bell  in  a chapel  close  by,  which,  he  said,  went 
wank,  wank,  wank,  until  he  was  nearly  driven  mad.  After  that 
I saw  him  oftener,  as  I wras  a punctual,  though  useless,  committee 
man  at  the  A.B.  . . . 

‘ Reading  through  the  foregoing  has  reminded  me  of  once 
when  I came  in  at  Merton,  and  found  him  at  work  on  a large 
drawing  for  a woven  stuff,  that  conversation  led  to  my  remarking 
that  I didn’t  know  when  he  found  time  to  write  Epic  poems,  on 
which  he  said,  “ Oh,  of  course  I make  them  while  I’m  doing  this 
sort  of  work.  A chap  ought  to  be  able  to  make  an  Epic  and  do 
this  sort  of  work  at  the  same  time — of  course  ! ” I don’t  think 
he  was  altogether  joking,  but  meant  that  he  found  the  ornamental 
designing  come  easy. 

* I’ve  another  little  scrap  of  his  writing  that  is  pre-Mertonian . 
It’s  an  acrostic  on  a post  card,  and  belongs  to  the  political  period 
of  1879,  and  the  meeting  at  St.  James’s  Hall.’ 

At  that  date  Morris  had  been  swept  into  politics  by  his  burning 
indignation  against  an  epidemic  of  revolting  barbarism.  The 

H 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


114 

collapse  of  the  Turkish  Government  in  its  European  provinces 
during  the  year  1876  had  been  accompanied  by  massacres  and 
torture  on  a hideous  scale  in  Bulgaria,  and  the  news  of  this  in 
England  although  at  first  treated  with  apathy,  gradually,  as  the 
facts  became  more  fully  realized,  roused  an  overwhelming  storm 
of  protest  and  horror.  Into  all  work  connected  with  the  Eastern 
Question  Morris  flung  himself  heart  and  soul,  and  his  first 
plunge  into  the  political  arena  was  succeeded  by  a vigorous 
political  campaign  as  treasurer  of  the  National  Liberal  League. 
De  Morgan  writes  to  Mackail : — 

‘ The  anti-Turk  Crusade,  and  the  St.  James’s  Hall  meetings 
having  landed  Morris  in  politics  (leastways  I never  heard  anything 
of  his  politicalizing  before  then),  an  atmosphere  of  politics  rankled 
in  previously  peaceful  quarters,  and  all  our  souls  were  rent  with 
a powerful  hatred  of  Tories — Tories  were  our  betes  noires  in  them 
days,  and  in  1880  we  rushed  to  the  poll.  My  own  feelings  took 
the  form  of  Acrostics,  and  sim’lar — I rather  think  your  daughter 
Angela’s  grandpa  has  one  which  expresses  my  faith  that  by  elect- 
ing Sir  Charles  Dilke  for  Chelsea  the  millennium  will  come  all  the 
quicker.  He  keeps  it  among  his  testimonials  to  Baronets,  to 
gratify  his  class  prejudices — I have  one  from  him  on  the  word 
Dilke,  of  which  the  fourth  line  is — ‘ Kum  to  grub  at  seven- 
thirty,’  and  I have  one  (which  is  what  I am  driving  at)  from 
Morris  as  follows  : — 

Election  Day,  1880. 

* How  sweet  the  never-failing  Spring  comes  round, 

Up  comes  the  sun  we  thought  the  sea  had  drown’d 
Rending  the  clouds  that  darkened  England’s  heart. 

Right  tears  the  veil  of  stealthy  Wrong  apart, 

And  we,  long-worn,  long  faithful,  glad  of  face. 

Hoist  the  torn  banner  to  its  ancient  place  . . . 

That's  the  first  part — Hurrah — I will  do  the  rest  if  I can — Gladstone  fot 
Middlesex  ! ’ 

‘ This  is  written  on  a post  card.  He  never  did  the  rest.  I 
recollect  going  to  some  other  political  meeting  where  some  capita] 
verses  he  had  written  for  the  purpose  were  sung  by  an  audience 
chiefly  of  working  men.  The  rendering  was  not  equal  to  the 
verses.’ 

During  this  General  Election  in  1880,  when  Sir  Charles  Dilke 
and  the  historian  Firth  were  standing  for  the  same  constituency, 
Burne-Jones,  Morris  and  De  Morgan  bombarded  each  other  with 
post  cards  representing  electioneering  propaganda,  many  of  these 
taking  the  form  of  acrostics  and  one  from  Philip  Burne-Jones 
being  ingeniously  planned  so  that  the  commencement  of  the  lines 
spells  Dilke , and  their  conclusion  Firth.  To  this  De  Morgan 
replied,  also  on  a post  card  : — 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


US 

* Never  vote  for  Inverarie 
Out  upon  him — he’s  a Tory  ; 

Similar,  don’t  vote  for  Brown 
He’s  an  adjective  and  noun  ! 

But  would  you  flood  the  land  with  milk 
And  honey,  back  the  Bart. — “ Sir  Dilke § 

Likewise,  although  he’s  got  no  Sir,  th 
E candidate  whose  name  is  FIRTH. 

Having  thus  released  Literature  from  the  absurd  shackles  into  which  she 
appeared  to  be  drifting , I remain  Liberally  your  aff.  D.M. 

In  another  mood  of  irresponsible  nonsense  De  Morgan  wrote 
a communication  in  prose  to  Burne-Jones  on  three  post  cards,  all 
posted  the  same  day,  and  of  which  the  sequence  is  indicated  by 
the  number  of  E’s  employed  in  the  initial  which  represents  Burne- 
Jones’s  Christian  name: — 

is2  post  card. 

E.  Burne-Jones,  Esq. 


Quoth  Benjamin  Disraeli — ‘ Well  I 
It’s  no  use  looking  glum  ! 

Imperium  has  gone  to  Hell 
And  Libertas  has  come  ’ 

(but  he  looks  very  glum  nevertheless — pulse 
720,000,  and  no  plumpers  !) 

Did  you  forge  a very  pretty  acrostic  on 
Hurrah,  and  try  to  pass  it  off  on  me  as  though 
it  were  by  W — 11 — m. 


2nd  post  card. 

E.  E.  Burne-Jones,  Esq. 


M — rr — s of  Emperor’s  Square,  Bloomsbury  ? It’s 
very  well  done  if  you  did.  Now  I’ll  tell  you  an  election 
story.  I went  into  a Pub  : and  addressed  the  owner— 
‘ Sir,’  I said,  ‘ I hear  that  Firth  is  in  as  well  as  Dilke — 
Io  paean  ! ’ This  I spake  in  the  exuberance  of  my 
spirits.  But  the  Publican  replied — ‘ Ah  ! and  I ’ope  ’e 
aint  ! Thafs  where  you  and  I differ.’ 


3 rd  post  card. 

E.  E.  E.  Burne-Jones,  Esq. 


But  I am  aware  that  I am  becoming  prolix-^ 

Your  aff.  D.M. 

Comink  to-morrow  evg. 


n6 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


The  result  of  the  Election  was  a triumph  for  the  Gladstone 
Government,  and  the  shower  of  post  cards  between  the  friends 
ceased  with  one  of  mock-sympathy  from  Burne-Jones  urging  De 
Morgan  to  inquire  after  ‘ poor  Beaconsfield — could  you  go  round 
and  ask  how  he  is  this  morning — they  say  he  has  passed  a very 
bad  night  and  I am  anxious  ! ' 

1 1,  of  course/  relates  De  Morgan,  ‘ followed  Morris’s  lead 
enthusiastically,  and  had  he  gone  that  way,  should  have  attended 
Tory  meetings  to  denounce  Liberalism.  But  I was  rather  dis- 
concerted when  I found  that  an  honest  objection  to  Bulgarian 
atrocities  had  been  held  to  be  one  and  the  same  thing  as  sympathy 
with.  Karl  Marx, 1 and  that  Morris  took  it  for  granted  that  I should 
be  ready  for  enrolment  with  Hyndman  and  Co.  ! — I wasn’t,  and 
I remember  telling  him  so,  when  he  remarked  that  I wasn’t  a 
Radical.  I said  I was,  according  to  my  definition  of  the  word. 
He  said  mine  was  wrong,  and  that  the  proper  definition  of  the 
word  “ Radical  ’*  was  a person  opposed  to  the  existing  order  of 
things.  I said,  very  well  then,  I wasn’t  a Radical,  and  so  we  had 
it,  up  and  down. 

‘ I wish  I could  remember  all  the  battles  we  had  over  politics. 
We  always  ended  in  a laugh.  He  said  he  knew  I was  a Tory  at 
heart,  and  gave  me  a pinch  of  snuff — Naturally,  he  did  not  take 
me  seriously.  I have  a dim  recollection  of  a discussion  on 
Socialism  which  ended  in  a scheme  for  the  complete  Reconstruc- 
tion of  Society  exactly  as  it  is  now — so  as  to  meet  the  views  of 
both  Revolutionaries  and  Conservatives.  However,  this  was  in 
the  earlier  days  of  Socialism — as  he  got  more  engrossed  in  the 
subject  this  sort  of  chat  became  less  and  less  possible,  and  for 
many  years  I don’t  recollect  politics  being  broached  when  I was 
at  his  home.  I didn’t  take  pains  to  go  there  when  I knew  there 
were  certain  Socialists  about,  as  I never  found  (being  at  heart  a 
bigot,  don’t  you  see  ? ) that  their  personal  charms  were  sufficient 
to  make  up  for  their  holding  opinions  diametrically  opposed  to 
my  own  on  every  possible  subject.  Given  this  last  condition  to 
be  unavoidable,  in  one’s  associates,  I prefer  Primrose  Dames  to 
Socialists.’ 

The  energetic  socialistic  propaganda  of  Morris  and  his 
vehement  denunciation  of  everything  bourgeois,  were  a fruitful 
source  of  jest  on  the  part  of  his  friends ; and  the  following 
fragment  was  sent  by  De  Morgan  to  Burne-Jones  : — 

a The  founder  of  international  socialism,  1818-1864.] 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


ii7 


* William  De  Morgan, 

36  Great  Cheyne  Row,  Chelsea,  S.W. 

And  Stone  Cottage  Pottery, 
Merton  Abbey. 

f What  a beautiful  poem  Orator  Prig  is — it  isn’t  half  appreciated  ! ” 


' i asked  of  my  Socialist,  Orator  Jaw 

What’s  your  first  observation  ? He  answered  “ bourgeois .** 

‘ And  what  is  your  second  ? He  responded  “ O Law 
It’s  identical,  similar,  likewise  bourgeois 

- And  what  is  your  third  ? He  replied  “To  be  sure 
It’s  as  follows,  to  wit,  videlicet,  bourgeois  I ” 

1 And  what  is  your  fourth  ? He  proceeded  to  pour 
Over  tomes  of  statistics,  then  answered  “ bourgeois  ! ” 

* And  what  is  your  fifth  ? He  considered  some  more 

And  paused  for  refreshments,  then  answered  “ bourgeois  \ n 

* And  what  is  your  sixth  ? "As  I mentioned  before 
It  is,”  he  replied,  “ (to  speak  briefly) — bourgeois .” 

* And  what  is  your  seventh  ? He  said  “ Lest  you  draw 
Wrong  conclusions  from  silence.  I’ll  say  it’s  bourgeois 

* And  what  is  your  eighth  ? — “ A surprise  is  in  store 
For  you  now  ! Do  not  start  if  I say  it’s  bourgeois  ! n 

8888888  8l 
•Go  on,  and  do  a little  more — I'm  tired.' 

Profoundly  as  De  Morgan  appreciated  the  genius  and  the 
greatness  of  Morris,  it  seems  possible  that  he  and  his  friends  at 
this  date  did  not  enter  into  the  true  inwardness  of  ‘ Top’s 
Socialism  * — the  large,  tender  heart  of  the  man  which  made  the 
recognition  of  preventable  suffering  a sheer  agony  to  him,  and 
drove  him — with  the  bruised  soul  of  a poet  and  the  yearnings  of 
an  idealist — to  confront,  and  court,  all  that  was  antagonistic  to 
his  own  temperament — the  sordid  things  of  life,  the  ugly,  and  the 
terrible.  De  Morgan  more  aptly  summed  up  the  spirit  of  this 
crusade  in  later  years.  * Top  chose  to  call  his  religion  t(  Socialism” 
but  for  himself,  when  asked  if  he  were  a socialist,  De  Morgan 
replied  : — ‘ First  tell  me  what  is  a socialist,  and  then  I can  tell 
you  if  I am  one.’  In  like  manner,  in  regard  to  the  various  riddles 
of  this  life  and  the  next  which  he  reviewed  in  a spirit  of  investi- 
gation, his  attitude  was  invariably  that  of  the  man  who — to  use 
his  own  metaphor — walks  all  round  the  pyramid  and  eyes  it 
from  different  angles — laughing,  meanwhile,  in  the  Sunshine  and 

1 The  figure  8 is  drawn  in  various  attitudes  which  convey  an  impression 
of  extreme  exhaustion. 


n8 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


not  dwelling  with  too  great  insistence  on  the  spaces  of  Shadow* 
since  he  understands  that  all  may  be  seen,  one  day,  in  far  othe* 
perspective  from  the  apex.  It  was  De  Morgan’s  role  to  weigh 
and  balance  inferences,  not  to  dictate  conclusions ; and  it  is  to 
be  remarked,  when  considering  the  many  problems  on  which  he 
loved  to  dwell,  how  rarely  he  was  ever  betrayed  into  a definite 
or  dogmatic  pronouncement  on  any  one. 

In  1871  Morris  had  purchased  beautiful  old  Kelmscott 
Manor,  on  the  borders  of  Oxfordshire,  a house  which  seemed 
to  breathe  a mingled  atmosphere  of  poetry  and  romance,  with 
its  grey  gables  and  mullioned  windows,  its  old-world  garden  of 
yew  hedges,  roses  and  lavender,  and  its  environment  of  emerald 
river-side  meadows  where  one  could  fancy  Lancelot  cantering 
past,  watched  by  the  mystic  Lady  of  Shalott.  There,  annually, 
De  Morgan  visited  him,  snatching  a brief  respite  from  the  toil  and 
stress  of  London,  through  golden  summer  days  of  idleness  and 
rest.  4 The  height  of  expectant  enjoyment  was  reached/  relates 
Miss  Morris,  4 when  my  father  wrote  to  say  I am  coming  on  such 
a day,  and  bringing  De  Morgan  with  me.  . . . Our  friend  on  a 
holiday  was  full  of  quips  and  drolleries  and  ingenious  riddles,  all 
told  in  that  thin  high  drawl,  with  a sort  of  vibration  in  it  that  was 
nearly  but  not  quite  a laugh,  and  that  indicated  enjoyment  of  his 
company  and  of  his  own  conceit.  It  was  good  to  listen  to.  Some 
of  his  jokes  took  the  form  of  doggerel  verse,  some  were  swift 
sketches,  expressive  and  prettily  drawn.  In  those  days  he  could 
scarcely  write  a letter  without  clothing  what  he  had  to  say  in 
some  form  of  oddity/ 

Among  the  few  surviving  relics  of  those  dead  summers  is  the 
following  addressed  by  De  Morgan  to  Morris : — 

Self-Restraint 

When  the  Gnat  at  eventide 
Rises  from  the  marshy  sedge. 

Then  the  Poet,  pensive-eyed, 

Lingers  by  the  streamlet’s  edge. 

Overhead  the  fluttering  Bat 
Circles,  while  the  convent-bells 

Call  to  vespers  ; then  the  Gnat 
Bites  the  Poet,  and  it  swells. 

Then  in  sympathetic  mood 

Whispers  thus  the  opening  rose : — • 

• Nothing  does  it  any  good — 

Wait  with  patience  till  it  goes.* 

Readers  likely  to  be  bit, 

Mark  the  moral  of  my  verse ! 

If  the  Poet  scratches  it, 

He  is  sure  to  make  it  worse. 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


119 


Seven  years  after  the  purchase  of  the  old  Manor  House, 
Morris  told  De  Morgan  that  he  had  found  a house  which  he  was 
going  to  buy  in  London  and  they  went  together  to  look  at  it. 
It  was  called  ‘ The  Retreat/  a good  solid  Georgian  building, 
situated  in  the  Upper  Mall,  Hammersmith,  with  only  a narrow 
roadway  bordered  by  elms  between  it  and  the  Thames.  It  had 
recently  been  vacated  by  Dr.  George  Macdonald,  the  author,  and 
when  De  Morgan  first  saw  it,  the  decoration  of  the  principal  rooms 
consisted  of  red  flock  paper  covered  by  long  book-cases,  painted 
black,  and  a ceiling  of  azure  blue,  dotted  with  gilt  stars,  con- 
siderably tarnished.  Needless  to  say,  Morris  soon  changed  its 
appearance  ; and  the  name,  which  he  said  reminded  him  of  a 
private  asylum,  he  altered  to  Kelmscott  House,  after  his  other 
home  on  the  banks  of  the  river. 

‘ The  hundred  and  thirty  miles  of  stream  between  the  two 
houses  were  a real,  as  well  as  an  imaginative,  link  between  them/ 
relates  Mr.  Mackail.  ‘ He  liked  to  think  that  the  water  which 


120 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

ran  under  his  windows  at  Hammersmith  had  passed  the  meadows 
and  grey  gables  of  Kelmscott ; and  more  than  once  a party  oi 
summer  voyagers  went  from  one  house  to  the  other  by  water, 
embarking  at  their  own  door  in  London  and  disembarking  in 
their  own  meadow  at  Kelmscott.’ 

A Log,  hitherto  unpublished,  exists  of  the  first  of  these 
memorable  journeys  undertaken  in  the  Ark,  a little  houseboat, 
which  Morris  describes  as  ‘ odd  and  delightful  ’ ; and  in  which, 
besides  the  host,  his  wife  and  two  daughters,  the  crew  consisted 
of  ‘ Crom  ’ Price,  the  Hon.  Richard  C.  Grosvenor  and  ‘ Me — 
organ,’  as  little  Margaret  Burne-Jones  had  named  De  Morgan. 
The  summary  of  their  daily  doings  therein  recorded  is  interspersed 
by  individual  comments  thereon,  inserted  in  the  margin. 

They  started  from  Hammersmith  at  3 p.m.  on  August  10, 
1880,  and  were  rowed  to  Kew  by  two  men  supplied  by  Biffen,  the 
owner  of  the  Ark.  ( Biffen' s men,’  comments  William  Morris, 
‘ one  a boy , the  other  a bad  case  of  chronic  alcoholic  poisoning,  his 
eyes  were  gogglesome,  probably  because  of  grog.')  At  Kew  they 
were  made  fast  to  a barge  and  4 towed  by  a mercantile  tin 
kettle  ’ as  far  as  Twickenham  ; later  a man  and  pony  from  Oxford 
towed  them  from  the  bank.  At  Molesey  Lock,  reached  by 
twilight,  William  Morris  ' made  an  effort  to  light  the  party  by 
means  of  a candle-lamp  with  a spring  in  it,’  but  unluckily  the 
spring  slipped,  and  the  candle  shot  like  a rocket  into  the  lock, 
whereupon  the  vehemence  of  Morris’s  expletives  ‘ gave  undis- 
guised delight  to  various  parties  in  pleasure  boats  ranged  along 
the  side  of  the  lock.’  On  the  next  occasion  when  Morris  gave 
vent  to  a D ‘ big  enough  to  be  recorded,’  there  is  a compre- 
hensive note  by  the  log-keeper  : ‘ This  narrative  may,  and  should 

be,  filled  up  at  frequent  intervals  with  such  expletives  as  may  seem 
to  fit  the  occasion  without  fear  of  corrupting  the  text,  or  in  any  way 
leaning  towards  exaggeration  of  the  facts.'  [Further  Note  by  W.  M., 
‘ Well  ! well  ! well  ! ') 

They  reached  Sunbury  at  10.15  p.m.  ('  Curious  and  rather 
pleasant,’  notes  William  Morris,  ‘ muddling  one’s  way  across  to 
the  Inn  in  the  dark  !) — where,  on  arrival, — 

* W.M.  exclaimed,  “ What  a stink  ! ” The  waiter  replied,  “ It  is 
nothing,  sir,  I assure  you.”  R.  C.  G.  inquisitively,  “ Is  it  a sewer  ? ” 
Waiter  in  answer,  “ Yes,  sir,  quite  sure.”  (Note  by  R.  C.  G.  : After  this 
unfortunate  jeu  d' esprit  some  of  the  males  of  the  party  seemed  to  think 
that  they  were  entitled  to  indulge  in  the  most  abominable  puns  for  the 
whole  of  the  rest  of  the  journey.)  Note  by  our  Communist  : “ A mountain 
before  a plain  ; a plain  before  a suburb  ; a suburb  before  a dust-heap  ; a 
dust-heap  before  a sewer  ; but  a sewer  before  a gentleman' s house.”  * 

Entries  follow  of  days  in  the  open  air,  when  De  Morgan 
dragged  the  male  members  of  the  party  out  of  bed  ‘ miserable 
but  helpless  ’ for  a bathe  in  the  early  dawn ; of  the  catching  of 


Bowl  painted  in  lustre  on  a dark  blue  ground  with  five  fishes  inside  and  three  outside. 
Height,  3|.  Diameter.  7\  inches. 

William  De  Morgan  fecit 
At  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum. 


V 


121 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 

fish  by  R.C.G.,  ' later  incorporated  into  the  system  of  the  fisher* ; 
of  food  prepared  by  Morris — his  culinary  genius  is  a matter  of 
history — meals  which  ' filled  the  company  with  satisfaction  and 
excellent  provisions  ’ : of  ‘ Price  appointed  boteler  by  acclama- 
tion (his  own)/  and  how  he  later  regaled  the  company  ‘ with  an 
entertainment  gratis  with  an  umbrella,  a shawl  and  a champagne 
bottle  * ; of  teas  partaken  on  the  bank  in  a golden  sunset ; of 
the  aurora  borealis  seen  once  in  great  beauty  over  the  shimmering 
river  ; of  nights  spent  by  some  of  the  party  on  board  the  Ark,  by 
others  at  a river-side  inn,  concerning  which  occurs  on  one  occasion 
the  pathetic  but  reticent  note  by  R.  C.  G.,  * Domestic  Insects / 
Of  one  evening  when,  to  the  dismay  of  the  merry  Bohemian  crew, 
they  suddenly  found  themselves  and  their  queer  craft  in  the 
middle  of  a fashionable  regatta  at  Henley,  where  they  created  no 
small  stir.  ‘ The  Ark  was  sculled  majestically  by  De  Morgan 
through  a crowd  of  inferior  craft  and  passed  under  the  bridge 
not  without  dignity,  amidst  considerable  excitement.  . . . Hove 
to  above  the  bridge,  party  still  rather  flustered  owing  to  passing 
through  the  regatta/  And  there  were  other  graphic  entries  : — 

* Towed  on  safely  to  Hambledon  Lock.  Great  indignation  of  Lock 
Keeper  Mrs.  Lomax  (a  widow  with  a growing  family)  because  the  party 
refused  to  pay  is.  6 d.  for  the  Ark  and  3 d.  for  the  Albert ; tearing  up  of 
receipt  for  3 d.  by  Mrs.  Lomax ; emphatic  denunciation  by  W.  M.  of 
Thames  Conservancy ; offer  by  Price  to  undertake  paternal  relation 
towards  the  Lomax  children.  . . . 

‘ Miss  Macleod  took  a baby  on  board  the  Ark  ; Price  offered  to  adopt 
it  and  was  for  feeding  it  on  the  spot  with  honey  out  of  a spoon. 

‘ Towed  on  to  Wargrave,  here  the  Ark  ran  aground  on  a mud  bank  ; 
all  the  males  of  the  party  gave  conflicting  orders  in  loud  tones  ; eventually 
De  Morgan  [characteristically]  restored  order  and  happiness  by  taking  off 
his  boots  and  socks,  stepping  into  the  mud  and  pushing  her  off.  . . . 

* Towed  on  to  Caversham,  W.  M.  and  D.  M.  discussing  the  inequalities 
and  injustice  of  our  Social  System  with  vigour,  emphasis  and  eagerness ; 
but  suggesting  different  solutions.  . . . 

* Passed  Streatley  . . . also  two  gents  bathing  in  the  rushes  on  the 
towing-path  side  of  the  river.  (A  note  by  the  ladies — discovery  of  Moses  by 
a lady  among  the  rushes  on  a former  occasion .)  . . . 

‘ At  Wallingford  Took  up  quarters  at  the  Town  Arms  Hotel  kept  by 
one  Thirza  Ransom  ; place  smelt  horrible.  . . . 

‘ Indifferent  supper ; smell  still  rampant ; W.  M.  partook  of  five 
lemon  squashes. 

‘ Sunday,  August  15.  Abominable  extortion  in  the  charges  of  Thirza 
Ransom.  Indignation  (suppressed)  of  W.  M.,  Mrs.  M.  and  R.  C.  G.  Start 
effected  at  9.30.  Warned  all  people  on  both  banks  of  the  river  to  avoid 
the  Town  Arms  Hotel. 

‘ Towed  on  to  Clifton  Lock  and  stopped  for  dinner  just  above  it. 
W.  M.  (though  angry)  was  appointed  cook  with  excellent  results  as  on  two 
former  occasions. 

‘ During  dinner  D.  M.  recounted  the  story  of  his  having  partaken  of 
mangy  roast  dog  at  Southampton  at  an  hotel  kept  by  a lady  whose  Christian 
name  was  also  Thirza.  (Note  by  a lady  during  dinner  “ potted  grouse  is 
made  of  black  beetles”) 


122 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 

‘ Towed  up  to  Culham  Lock.  (Note  by  the  Loch  Keeper  " I do  noi 
keep  the  Loch,  the  Loch  keeps  me.") 

‘ At  this  spot  a number  of  children  appeared  and  whined  a melancholy 
and  persistent  ditty,  “ Please,  sir,  throw  us  a copper.”  (Note  by  the  smallest 
infant,  “ Crow  us  a thropper.)  D.  M.  and  Miss  May  injured  their  own 
moral  sense  and  that  of  the  children  by  doing  so. 

* Towed  on  to  Abingdon  ...  on  the  towing-path  an  infant  saved  his 
own  life  by  nearly  tumbling  into  the  water  and  R.  C.  G.  saved  the  lives  of 
the  whole  party  by  jumping  on  to  the  top  of  the  Ark  under  the  bridge 
and  pushing  her  uphill  through  it.  (Note  by  R.  C.  G.  This  was  one  of 
many  instances  in  which  life  was  saved  m various  ways  and  by  different 
people  throughout  the  expedition.)  ‘ 

After  Oxford  again  comes  a note  : — 

* During  this  and  the  preceding  day  the  whole  party  were  frequently 
caused  to  groan  in  spirit  by  a succession  of  puns  so  outrageous  that  no 
words  could  describe  them  and  no  intelligent  individual  do  ought  else  but 
shudder  at  the  recollection  of  their  number  and  nature.  . . 

And  so  the  Log  runs  on,  with  its  significant  entries  of  ‘ great 
hilarity while  the  holiday  spirit  of  that  vanished  summer — the 
happy  mood  which  in  every  triviality  saw  fresh  food  for 
merriment — still  lives  in  its  pages,  though  of  those  who  then 
made  merry,  alas  ! all  but  one  have  * gone  to  the  Land  of  no 
laughter.' 

‘ I have  treasured  mental  pictures  of  this  journey,’  relates 
Miss  Morris,  ‘ with  De  Morgan  in  the  foreground,  always  genial 
and  content,  whether  called  upon  to  scull  our  uncouth  boat  with 
its  happy  ragamuffin  crew  through  the  crowd  of  a genteel 
regatta,  or  to  celebrate  the  voyage  in  verse  and  picture.’  But 
to  little  Margaret  Burne-Jones  De  Morgan  penned  an  account 
of  his  adventures  as  follows  : — 


William  De  Morgan  to  Margaret  Burne-Jones . 


* My  dear  little  Margot, — » 


* Kelmscott, 

* August  1 6 — ’8o. 
*No!  August  17 — ’80. 


* As  to  writing  an  account  of  our  most  eventful  voyage — how  can  I ? 
It  would  take  all  the  columns  of  a copy  of  the  Daily  Telegraph.  Besides 
I can’t  remember  one  thing  from  another — — 

‘ Very  generally  speaking,  I did  not  exert  myself  at  all  to  do  anything, 
but  I exerted  everybody  else  very  much  indeed.  I lay  in  the  boat  engaged 
in  the  manufacture  of  puns  and  bad  jokes,  and  every  one  else  rowed  and 
steered  and  pushed  and  slapped  and  pinched  the  boats  to  make  them 
go. 

‘ Our  boat  had  one  sail  (which  we  didn’t  use)  and  the  helmsman  never 
looked  particularly  pale,  at  least  till  the  end  of  the  voyage,  when  several 
characters,  strange  to  say,  were  unwell,  this  was  because  they  towed  the 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


123 


boats  and  got 
squeezed  — I can 
tell  you  when  a 
chap  tries  to  tow, 
he  gets  exactly  like 
curried  fowls  in 
tins,  inside,  owing 
to  the  compression. 

‘ We  set  sail 
from  Hammersmith 
as  ’twer  on  Tues- 
day and  arrived 
here  so  to  speak  on 
Monday.  We  slept 
at  Sun  bury  on 

Tuesday,  and  were 
waked  by  a cock- 
a-doodle,  but 
wouldn’t  say  doo  ! 

‘ There  were  once  seven  towns  built  by  the  inhabitants  of  Sunbury — 
it  was  the  first  thing  built — Monbury  and  Tuesbury  are  extinct — Wednes- 
bury  still  exists — Thursbury  not — Fribury  is  in  Switzerland  where  natives 
call  it  Fribourg-en-Swisse,  but  that  is  because  they  are  foreigners  and 
cannot  help  it — Saturbury  was  never  finished  owing  to  the  half-holiday. 

* Our  next  Station  was  Windsor,  where  the  Castle  is  too  large  to  move, 
but  large  enough  to  take  the  Queen  for  all  that,  and  any  number  of  Bishops 
and  Knights  into  the  bargain. 

‘ I looked  for  Newton,1 *  but  I couldn’t  see  him 

‘ Eton  is  a pretty  place,  it  is  called  so  after  the  fish  which  are  eaten 
there 

‘ Then  we  came  to  Great  Marlowe,  which  reminded  us  of  little  Margot. 

* We  stayed  at  the  Complete  Angler.  It  is  called  so  after  an  Angle 
of  360°  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood.  We  saw  the  Obtuse  Angler 
staying  there. 

‘ Then  came  Sonning — a very  pretty  crib — it  is  so  called  from  the 
French  sonner,  to  ring  a bell,  because  we  rang  the  bell  so  often  for  things. 

‘ The  next  place  was  Wallingford,  scilicet  Wailingfold,  because  the 
bill  was  very  high  and  we  lamented — and  a very  silly  set  8 we  were  not 
to  ask  beforehand  what  inn  to  go  to 

* The  next  was  Oxford,  when  in  spite  of  Mr.  Morris’s  dreadful  revolu- 
tionary sentiments  we  slept  in  the  King’s  Arms.  There  are  many  deriva- 
tions of  Oxford,  and  it  probably  comes  from  all  of  them,  though  every  one 
has  his  favourite. 

* Auksford  from  the  Auks — they  are  not  there  but  in  the  Orkneys — 
that  doesn’t  matter — if  they  like  to  give  their  name — let  them — that’s 
their  look  out. 

‘ Arxford — from  the  inquiring  spirit  of  the  Dons. 

* Arksford — because  a narrer  mind  only  wants  a narrer  ’at  [an  Ararat]. 
They  are  ashamed  of  this  and  always  wear 
broad  ones.  Also  Boxford  and  Coxford  because 
they  cannot  easily  take  in  more  than  one  idea 
at  a time — [erasures]  that’s  enough  ! 

‘ Then  we  came  on  here  yesterday.  We  were 
towed  by  Mr.  Bossom  (who  continually  un- 
bossomed  himself  from  the  bank  into  Mr.  Morris’s 


1 A reference  to  the  firm  of  Winsor  & Newton,  colour  merchants. 

* Gratis.  [Note  by  De  Morgan.] 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


124 

sympathetic  ear  until  the  latter  murmured  against  him)  as  far  as  Bablock- 
hithe,  or  Badbloke-hithe,  so  called  from  Wm.  Morris  and  your  Uncle 
Crommy  Price.  We  got  through  lots  of  weirs,  and  unhappily  I passed 
without  noticing  it  (so  as  to  mention  it)  Weir  7,  on  which  Wordsworth 
wrote  that  pretty  poem.  We  nearly  got  drowned  getting  through  Radcote 
Bridge — some  strong  language  was  used,  but  I name  no  names.  It  is 
very  difficult  going  uphill  through  Bridges. 


bottles  of  the  champagne  arrived  safe — the  remainder  was  gone,  and  we 
cannot  account  for  it. 


* With  all  their  loves  accept  mine  from  your  loving  uncle.’ 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


125 

Nearly  twenty  years  later  De  Morgan  was  asked  by  'little 
Margot’s  ’ husband,  Mr.  Mackail,  to  fill  in  certain  gaps  in  the 
picture  of  that  merry  voyage,  and  looking  back  through  the  haze 
of  memory  to  those  far-away  summer  days,  he  related  how 
‘ among  the  things  that  come  out  most  prominent  in  my  recollec- 
tion ’ was  one  evening  when  ‘ at  the  Hotel  where  we  put  up,’ 
there  occurred  a battle  royal  respecting  Charles  Dickens’s  creation, 
Mrs.  Harris,  as  to  whether  she  was,  or  was  not,  an  abstraction. 

‘ It  began  like  this  : We  played  Twenty  Questions,  and  Mrs. 
H.  was  the  subject  to  be  guessed — I think  by  me,  as  I was  sent 
out  of  the  room  while  the  discussion  proceeded  how  my  first 
question — “ abstract  or  concrete  ? ” should  be  answered.  I 
remember  being  outside  the  door  when  the  waiter  came  up  from 
the  people  in  the  room  underneath  to  know  if  anything  was  the 
matter.  It  was  a warm  discussion,  but  the  furniture  was  strong, 
and  there  was  nothing  in  the  bill  for  breakages.  It  was  virtually 
between  Charles  Faulkner,  whom  we  had  picked  up  at  Oxford — 
and  he  maintained  that  Mrs.  Harris  was  just  as  much  a concrete 
idea  as  any  other  character  in  fiction.  Morris  repudiated  this 
indignantly  almost,  affirming  that  she  wasn’t  even  a character 
in  fiction,  as  she  doesn’t  occur  in  the  story,  except  as  an  invention 
of  Mrs.  Gamp,  who  is  herself  a character  in  fiction.  There  is 
certainly  no  conclusive  evidence  that  Mrs.  Gamp  had  any  definite 
image  or  idea  of  Mrs.  Harris  in  her  mind — and  that  she  wasn’t 
merely  a LIE,  pure  and  simple,  in  which  case  perhaps  she 
couldn’t  be  regarded  as  concrete.  It’s  a delicate  question.  I 
recollect  discussing  it  afterwards  with  M.  in  the  Merton  Abbey 
days  when  I was  putting  down  the  foundation  of  my  unfortunate 
building  there.  It  was  recalled  to  our  mind  by  the  concrete — 
naturally. 

* The  foregoing  about  Mrs.  Harris  gives  a fair  idea  of  what 
the  voyages  up  the  river  were  like — according  to  my  recollection 
we  none  of  us  stopped  laughing  all  the  way.  The  second  voyage 
must  have  been  just  about  when  Merton  Abbey  was  started,  as 
I remember,  at  Sandford,  near  Oxford,  there  was  a chimney 
falling  down  and  some  remarks  were  made  about  Sandford  and 
Merton — this  fixes  it  in  my  mind.’ 

For  out  of  that  happy  comradeship — those  eager  days  of 
work,  those  golden  days  of  laughter — had  grown  a project 
between  William  Morris  and  De  Morgan  to  combine  the  site  of 
their  separate  undertakings  and  to  settle  their  factories  either 
on  the  same  premises  or  near  together.  Orange  House  had,  in 
its  turn,  become  too  cramped  in  space  for  De  Morgan  ; and 
Morris  was  anxious  to  concentrate  his  own  various  enterprises 
under  one  roof.  But  the  project  dragged  on  as  a pleasing  possi- 
bility for  some  time  before  it  materialized.  Miss  Morris  relates  : — 

‘ The  country  easily  accessible  from  London  was  explored  a 


126 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


long  time  in  vain  ; then  one  summer  holiday  a disused  silk-mill 
with  most  of  the  necessary  qualifications  was  discovered  in  a 
remote  village,  one  of  those  jewel-like  clusters  of  grey  buildings 
that  nestle  among  the  slopes  of  the  Cotswolds.  All  the  points 
in  favour  of  this  site  (so  far  removed  from  the  “ great  wen  ”) 
were  seriously  and  eagerly  considered,  those  against  it  being  set 
aside  for  future  consideration.  However,  this  dream  of  reviving 
the  crafts  in  a part  of  the  country  where  they  had  formerly 
flourished  had  to  be  regretfully  abandoned  by  the  two  friends, 
and  the  laughing  waters  of  that  wide  free  country  to  be  exchanged 
for  the  sleepy  Wandle  and  the  melancholy  of  the  once-country 
struggling  against  conversion  into  town.  I think  that  discovery 
of  the  ideal  factory  must  have  been  in  1880,  the  year  that  the 
two  families  made  a memorable  journey  to  London  from  Kelm- 
scott  by  water  in  the  Ark.’ 

De  Morgan  himself  relates  : ‘ My  own  settlement  at  Merton 
came  about  in  this  wise.  Morris  and  I were  always  talking  over 
an  imaginary  factory  which  I was  to  occupy  jointly  with  him. 
It  wasn’t  so  much  that  we  believed  in  it — indeed,  we  always 
called  it  the  Fiction  ary — as  that  it  gave  us  an  endless  excuse 
for  going  over  premises.  We  raised  the  hopes  of  many  a pro- 
prietor of  unsaleable  property,  always  going  carefully  into  the 
minutest  details  and  arranging  the  rooms,  which  was  to  have 
which,  and  so  forth,  till  the  miserable  owner  really  believed  a 
deal  was  sure  to  eventuate.  We  brought  away  bottles  of  water 
for  analysis  to  make  sure  that  it  was  fit  to  dye  with.  I recollect 
Morris’s  delight  when  a certificate  was  sent  from  an  eminent 
analyst  to  the  effect  that  a sample  taken  from  pipes  supplying 
all  Lambeth  was  totally  unfit  for  consumption — and  could  only 
result  in  prompt  zymotic  disease  ! “ There’s  your  science  for 

you,  De  M.  ! ” said  Morris.  I explained  that,  if  the  analyst  had 
known  that  250,000  people  drank  the  water  daily,  he  would 
have  analysed  it  different.  This  was  in  Battersea,  and  never 
came  to  anything. 

‘ I think  Blockley  was  nearest  to  fructifying  of  any  of  the 
places  we  saw.  Blockley  is  a village  in  Gloucestershire,  or 
Oxford  or  Worcester,  I can’t  say  which,  all  those  counties  having 
split  up  into  fragments  in  that  corner,  and  become  as  it  were 
sprays  of  map-chips.  We  drove  there  somehow,  from  Fairford 
maybe,  and  found  it  an  old  village  of  many  water-mills,  which 
Dnce  turned  out  endless  silk  yarn  for  Coventry.  The  mills  were 
ill  empty  and  decaying,  and  we  might  have  bought  them  for 
very  little.  Morris  was  very  much  in  love  with  the  place.  It  is 
true  he  did  not  want  water-power  to  the  extent  of  200  h.p.,  but 
then  the  place  was  so  delightful,  and  there  were  such  a lot  of 
people  out  of  work  there.  The  last  notice  of  wage-reduction 
was  on  the  doors  of  the  workshops,  sevenpence  a day,  I think, 


Dish,  saucer-shaped,  painted  in  colours  with  a peacock  against  a flowering  tree. 

Diameter  16  inches 

lAt  the  Victoria  & Albert  Museum,  London 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


127 

the  last  gasp  before  the  trade  succumbed,  which  it  finally  did 
when  the  silk-worm  disease  impaired  the  silk  and  made  it  un- 
workable in  their  (or  these)  machines. 

* The  expectations  of  the  unhappy  owners  were  worked  up 
by  our  inspections  (I  know  we  went  twice),  but  common  sense 
and  Wandle  over-ruled  Morris,  and  Blockley  vanished/ 

In  the  spring  of  1881,  Morris  wrote  to  De  Morgan  : — 

9 Kelmscott  House, 

* Hammersmith, 

* Saturday, 

* Dear  De  M., — 

* I wish  you  would  come  over  to-morrow.  The  fictionary  sounds 
likely  to  become  a factory  : Welsh  [the  out-going  tenant  at  Merton]  has 
practically  accepted  our  offer.  Also  we  have  practically  settled  matters 
with  the  lawyers  and  the  owners  : so  adieu  Blockley  and  joy  for  ever, 
and  welcome  grubbiness,  London,  low  spirits  and  boundless  riches. 

* Your  affec., 

‘ W.  Morris.’ 

Only  one  more  attempt  at  exploration  did  the  friends  sub- 
sequently make,  cycling  together  to  inspect  an  unsuitable  place 
at  Southwark — ‘ Our  last  expedition/  wrote  Morris  regretfully 
on  April  28,  * till  Merton  Abbey  gets  too  small  for  us  1 ' 

Thus  the  joint  search  which  Morris  and  De  Morgan  had  so 
long  prosecuted  came  to  an  end,  and  the  ‘ Fictionary  ' material- 
ized in  the  summer  of  1881.  The  premises  at  Merton  Abbey, 
which  covered  seven  acres  of  ground,  were  disused  print-works 
on  the  high  road  from  London  to  Epsom,  just  seven  miles  from 
Charing  Cross,  and,  although  old-fashioned,  were  in  a good  state 
of  repair.  They  had  originally  been  part  of  a silk-weaving 
factory  started  by  Huguenot  refugees,  and  it  seemed  fitting  that 
the  descendant  of  a Huguenot  refugee  should  utilize  them. 
Through  them  ran  the  river  Wandle  supplying  the  clear  water 
which  was  essential  to  the  scheme  ; while  a hint  of  romance  still 
clung  to  the  locality  where,  beyond  the  meadow,  the  remains 
of  a mediaeval  wall  marked  the  site  of  the  former  Abbey  and 
constituted  the  sole  relic  of  Nelson’s  ‘ dear,  dear,  Merton  ’ whith 
had  been  pulled  down  many  years  before. 

‘ When  Mr.  De  Morgan  was  clearing  out  to  go  to  Merton/ 
relates  Mr.  Bale,  ‘ it  was  a strange  sight.  He  was  always  slap- 
dash in  those  days,  and  he  couldn’t  stand  the  bother  of  packing. 
He  just  sat  on  a chair  and  put  a hammer  through  dishes  worth 
£2  10s.  and  £3,  at  the  same  time  saying,  “ Go  on,  boys,  help  your- 
selves ! ”■ — which  you  may  be  quite  sure  we  did. 

‘ When  he  pulled  the  kiln  down  to  go  to  Merton,  bothered 
if  he  didn’t  give  all  his  bricks  (especially  his  fire-bricks)  to  the 
Borough  of  Chelsea  and  actually  paid  the  cartage  ! when  he  must 
have  known  he  would  want  them  badly  at  Merton,  As  it  was 


128 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


he  had  fine  material  for  breaking  up  to  mix  with  his  fire  clay  in 
making  his  tiles  and  vases. 

‘ When  I arrived  at  Merton,  I found  he  had  built  his  kiln 
in  and  on  the  giound,  right  in  the  centre  of  the  building — the 
chimney  shaft  quite  a splendid  idea,  but  unfortunately  it  was 
built  over  the  centre  of  the  kiln,  and  the  weight  of  the  shaft  was 
enormous,  two  fire-bricks  thick.  I saw  that  it  was  nice  and 
comfortable  to  start  with,  but  that  I shouldn’t  like  to  be  there 
when  the  kiln  was  beginning  to  wear  out,  for  if  it  fell  it  would 
take  the  whole  of  the  building  with  it.’ 

De  Morgan’s  own  account  of  his  proceedings  in  this  new 
venture  were  as  follows  : ‘ In  1881-2  I took  a piece  of  land 

at  Merton  Abbey  and  erected  buildings  and  kilns  there.  . . . 
I first  constructed  a magnificent  basement,  and  then  decided 
it  was  too  handsome  to  put  to  the  base  purposes  meant  for  a 
mere  basement,  so  I built  another  storey  and  that  was,  in  a 
sense,  the  same  story,  for  unfortunately  it  proved  too  magnificent 
for  what  I intended  ; so  I had  to  build  another  one,  and  so  on 
till  the  building  became  a sky-scraper,  and  then  it  wasn’t  suitable 
for  anything  I wanted,  and  I had  to  move,  and  that  was  the  end 
of  that  story  ! ' 

One  serious  objection  to  Merton,  however,  of  which  he  soon 
became  aware,  was  its  inaccessibility  from  London,  and  the  daily 
journey  there  grew  yet  more  irksome  as  his  health  gave  cause 
for  anxiety.  He  was  already  suffering  from  a weakness  of  the 
spine  which  troubled  him  for  the  remainder  of  his  days,  and 
was  then  believed  to  be  the  result  of  a tendency  towards  phthisis ; 
moreover,  in  1884,  the  need  for  exercising  special  precaution 
against  this  constitutional  delicacy  was  brought  home  to  him 
cruelly  by  the  death  of  his  sister  Annie,  Mrs.  Thompson.  The 
letter  which  Morris  wrote  to  him  from  London  on  this  occasion 
still  survives  : — 

* Kelmscott  House, 

‘January  19,  1884. 

* My  dear  Bill, — 

‘ Of  course  from  what  you  said  to  me  I have  been  expecting  your 
sad  news  any  day.  What  is  there  to  say  about  it  save  that  it  is  a sad 
tale  ? However,  life  is  good  as  long  as  we  can  really  live,  and  even  sorrow 
if  so  taken  has  something  good  in  it  as  a part  of  life,  as  I myself  have 
found  at  times — yet  have  not  the  less  bemoaned  myself  all  the  same. 

‘ So  in  spite  of  yourself  I wish  you  a long  life,  my  dear  fellow,  to  play 
your  due  part  in. 

* Give  my  love  and  sympathy  to  your  mother  and  Mary — I shall  hope 
to  see  you  soon  again. 

• Yours  affectionately, 

‘ William  Morris.* 

At  this  date  it  did  not  look  as  though  the  ‘ long  life  ’ which 
his  friend  wished  him  would  ever  be  De  Morgan’s  portion.  Yet 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


129 

his  enthusiasm  counteracted  physical  weakness,  and  he  struggled 
on  with  apparently  unabated  energy.  Meanwhile  he  retained 
the  show-room  in  Chelsea  till  1886,  when  he  took  premises  at 
45  Great  Marlborough  Street,  formerly  the  house  of  Mrs.  Siddons, 
for  the  exhibition  of  his  pottery  in  what  had  once  been  a large 
ball-room  on  the  ground  floor. 

■ About  a year  later/  he  relates,  ‘ owing  to  circumstances 
connected  with  health,  I was  obliged  to  limit  my  supervision  of 
my  factory  at  Merton.  The  long  journey  every  day  was  more 
than  I could  manage  and  I was  unable  to  make  my  domestic 
arrangements  fit  in  with  the  plan  I always  had  of  residing  there. 
Practically  I had  to  choose  between  giving  up  the  business  and 
bringing  the  factory  nearer  home/  None  the  less,  it  is  said  that 
one  consideration  alone  clinched  his  wavering  decision  to  leave 
Merton.  He  was  at  this  date  absorbed  in  the  designing  and 
decoration  of  a pot  of  abnormal  size  which  subsequently  became 
the  property  of  Lord  Ashburnham.  This  chej  d’ ceuvre  would 
not  go  into  the  great  kiln  at  Merton  ; and  where  his  art  was 
concerned,  no  consideration,  monetary  or  otherwise,  was  ever 
allowed  to  stay  action.  The  erection  of  a new  and  larger  kiln 
was  immediately  decided  upon  ; Merton  Abbey  had  become  too 
small  for  him  ; and  he  abruptly  brought  to  a close  what  may  be 
termed  the  second  epoch  in  his  manufacture  of  pottery. 

A rumour  gained  credence  that  he  was  giving  up  his  work, 
and  he  wrote  as  follows  to  the  wife  of  his  old  friend  Henry 
Holiday  : — 


William  De  Morgan  to  Mrs.  Holiday. 

‘ December  16,  ’87. 

* If  F.  told  you  I was  going  to  give  up  making  lustres,  it  must  be  that 
he  has  been  giving  ear  to  a rumour  to  that  effect  which  I believe  is  fr© 
quently  put  about  by  some  disinterested  admirers  of  mine. 

‘ I call  them  disinterested  because  they  don’t  take  any  interest  in  the 
circulation  of  my  goods,  and  I suppose  they  are  admirers  or  they  wouldn’t 
copy  my  goods  so  closely,  faults  and  all ! 

‘ The  funny  part  of  it  is  that  we  can  none  of  us  make  a really  good 
piece  of  lustre  ware  to  save  our  lives. 

‘ Cantagalli  of  Florence  makes  good  lustre,  and  Clement  Massier,  a 
Frenchy  Mossoo,  has  done  some  rather  interesting  ones  lately. 

‘ However,  to  resume,  I am  not  giving  up  lustre  making.  On  the 
contrary,  I am  hoping  to  turn  out  some  really  creditable  work  very  soon 
at  the  pottery  at  Sands  End,  when  I have  removed  from  Merton  Abbey, 
to  be  within  reach  of  home.  ...  I have  been  awfully  busy  and  gone 
nowhere.’ 

It  was  in  1888  that  De  Morgan  started  work  in  De  Morgan 
Road,  Sands  End,  Fulham,  entering  into  partnership  with 
Halsey  Ricardo.  'I  am  glad  you  are  not  a sleeping-partner/ 
he  wrote  encouragingly  to  the  latter ; ‘ My  idea  of  a sleeping- 
partner  is  a partner  who  just  wakes  up  to  share  the  profits  and 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


130 

then  goes  to  sleep  again  ! ’ But  before  the  removal  to  Fulham 
actually  came  to  pass  another  and  yet  greater  change  had  taken 
place  in  De  Morgan’s  life,  which  is  thus  referred  to  by  Mr.  Bale  : — 

‘ Mr.  De  Morgan  was,  as  I have  said,  a very  generous  master. 
If  any  man  was  in  trouble,  his  hand  went  to  his  pocket  at  once. 
One  day  a lad  in  his  employ  came  to  him  with  the  news  that  he 
was  going  to  get  married.  Mr.  De  Morgan  at  once  said,  “ Then 
you’ll  want  more  money  if  you’re  going  to  keep  a wife,  so  I’ll 
raise  your  wages.’ ’ After  that,  all  the  lads  were  for  getting 
married  and  he  had  to  treat  them  all  the  same.  At  last  he  could 
stand  it  no  longer,  and  when  a fresh  one  came  to  him  with  the 
same  news, he  said,  “Now  look  here,  boys,  I can  have  no  more  of 
this.  The  next  man  in  this  factory  who  gets  married  will  get 
the  sack.”  But  the  laugh  turned  against  him,  for  the  next  man 
to  get  married  was  Mr.  De  Morgan  himself.’ 

William  De  Morgan  to  Edward  Burne-Jones . 


* Chelsea, 

* June  21,  1885. 


* Dear  Ned, — 

* I meant  to  have  come  in  yesterday  evg.  ; but  I was  engaged  to  be 
married  and  couldn’t  ! 

* I wanted  to  convey  the  news  to  you  of  two  engagements  that  have 


THE  MERTON  PERIOD 


131 

just  come  to  pass.  One  is  my  own — I am  engaged  to  a lady.  The  other 
is  Evelyn  Pickering’s — She  is  engaged  to  a cove,  or  bloke. 

4 Having  supplied  you  with  the  data  (see  frontispiece)  she  and  I are 
both  strongly  disposed  to  come  round  some  time  and  see  if  you  can  guess 
whom  we  are  respectively  engaged  to.  Don’t  give  it  up  ! 

* We  send  you  all  our  united  kind  love,  in  which  my  mother  and  sister 
commingle. 

* Yours  affectly, 

4 D.  M.* 


Edward  Burne-Jones  to  William  De  Morgan . 


* My  dear  D.  M., — 

4 I am  so  glad,  but  you  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a crow- 
bar, I was  so  surprised — regular  took  aback  I were. 

4 Now  that’s  pretty  comfortable,  I call  it — we  are  just  where  we  were 
and  no  complications  between  parties. 

4 We  are  all  glad  about  it. 

4 Find  a day  next  week  for  a feast  and  come  both  of  you  and  we’ll 
have  larks. 

4 Yes,  it  is  admirable — in  former  merrier  years  I should  have  called 
it  capital,  but  the  word  terrifies  me  now  and  whenever  I see  it  I slink 
away. 

4 My  dear  fellow,  I feel  as  if  J had  suggested  it  ! 

f Always  your  affte, 

'Ned.* 


Pencil  Sketch 
in  a Note-Book 
by  William  De  Morgan. 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICKERINGS 

FOR  a brief  space  we  must  turn  from  the  life-story  of  William 
De  Morgan  to  consider  that  of  his  wife,  since  for  thirty 
years  she  was  destined  to  be  the  most  prominent  factor  in  the 
moulding  of  his  later  career.  But  in  order  to  measure  the  quality 
of  her  influence  it  is  necessary  first  to  understand  something  of 
her  own  temperament  and  its  development,  derived  alike  from 
her  immediate  ancestry  and  environment. 

Mary  Evelyn  Pickering  was  the  eldest  daughter  of  Percival 
Andree  Pickering,  Q.C.,  Recorder  of  Pontefract,  Attorney- 
General  for  the  County  Palatine  and  sometime  Treasurer  of  the 
Inner  Temple.  He  married  in  1853  Anna  Maria  Spencer-Stan- 
hope, who  was  herself  the  eldest  daughter  of  John  and  Lady 
Elizabeth  Spencer-Stanhope,  of  Cannon  Hall,  Yorkshire. 

Of  the  intellectual  qualifications  of  the  Pickerings  as  a race 
it  is  possible  to  speak  with  an  unusual  degree  of  certainty  from 
a remote  period.  ‘ I apprehend/  said  Sir  foaac  Heard,  Garter 
King  of  Arms,  writing  to  Evelyn’s  grandfather,  ‘ that  there  is 
scarcely  any  family  in  England  so  well  descended  as  yours,  and 
who  can  so  well  authenticate  it,  not  merely  by  the  pedigree, 
but  by  the  records  of  the  kingdom,  combining  ancient  nobility 
and  royalty.’  Nor,  he  might  have  added,  were  there  many 
families  the  record  of  which — other  than  this  cursory  glance 
which  is  all  that  we  can  here  devote  to  it — might  prove  so  enter- 
taining to  posterity  and  full  of  lively  incident. 

We  have  seen  how  the  De  Morgans  belonging  to  the  earlier 
generations  regarded  life  very  seriously.  They  were  willing  to 
sacrifice  all  worldly  advantage  to  their  convictions — alike  to 
orthodoxy  or  heterodoxy  ; and  we  have  seen,  too,  how  William, 
with  his  versatile  genius  and  his  happy  Bohemianism,  was,  in 
much,  the  product  of  a collateral  inheritance.  The  same  may 
be  said  of  his  wife  and  her  forbears.  But  while  the  Pickerings, 
as  a race,  regarded  life  with  an  equal  gravity,  this  did  not,  in 
their  case,  engender  any  placid  indifference  to  worldly  advantage. 
Brilliant,  comely  and  self-assertive  through  the  generations, 
their  constant  prominence  in  the  angry  world  of  politics  was, 

\35 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


136 

it  must  be  admitted,  usually  on  the  side  of  aggression — occasion- 
ally mis-named  liberty ; but  neither  did  they  despise  the  plums 
of  existence. 

Only  one  noted  member  of  the  family  seems  to  have  left 
behind  him  an  entirely  peaceful  memory;  Sir  James  Pickering,1 
one  of  the  earliest  recorded  Speakers  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
circa  1378,  who  placidly  represented  the  Counties  of  Westmor- 
land and  Yorkshire  as  Knight  of  the  Shire  from  1362  to  1497. 
For  the  rest,  where  there  was  a turmoil  in  the  State,  the  Pickerings 
figured  in  it,  and  sank  or  swam  with  the  swaying  of  the  tide. 
Their  crest,  a bear’s  paw  with  the  claws  somewhat  in  evidence, 
and  the  suggestive  motto  Pax  tua,  requies  mea  remained  singularly 
well  chosen. 

Thus  John  Pickering,  B.D.,  Prior  of  the  Dominican  House  of 
Cambridge,  helped  to  organize  and  was  a leader  of  the  Pilgrimage 
of  Grace,  in  consequence  of  which  Henry  VIII  wrote  that  ‘ Dr. 
Pickering  should  be  sent  up  to  him,’  and  Dr.  Pickering  was  duly 
executed  at  Tyburn  in  1537.  Another  learned  Dr.  Pickering, 
a kinsman,  at  the  same  date  and  for  the  same  cause,  long 
languished  in  the  Tower  ; while  a few  years  later  Sir  William 
Pickering,  Ambassador  {to  France  in  1551,  celebrated  as  a courtier 
and  diplomatist,  narrowly  escaped  a similar  fate  by  being  con- 
cerned in  Wyatt’s  conspiracy. 

This  Sir  William,  ‘ a Patron  of  the  Arts,’  however,  whose 
fine  tomb  may  be  seen  to-day  in  St.  Helen’s,  Bishopsgate,  had  a 
remarkable  career,  to  which  space  will  not  now  permit  us  to  do 
justice.  His  father  was  Knight-Marshal  to  Henry  VIII,  and 
he  early  figured  at  Court,  not  always,  according  to  history,  in 
enviable  fashion.  For  instance,  in  1543,  on  the  significant  date 
of  April  1,  we  are  told  that  he  and  Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey, 
were  brought  before  the  Council  charged  with  the  heinous  offence 
of  ‘ eating  flesh  in  Lent  ’ and  of  ‘ walking  about  the  streets  of 
London  at  night  breaking  the  windows  of  the  houses  with  stones 
shot  from  cross-bows.  ’ These  misdeeds,  which  sound  like  the  result 
of  an  inconvenient  ebullition  of  youthful  spirits,  William  at  first 
denied,  then  confessed,  and  was  forthwith  imprisoned  in  the 
Tower.  But  later  he  acquitted  himself  with  such  credit  as  to 
erase  the  memory  of  that  luckless  ‘ All  Fools  ’ day,  and  after 
the  accession  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  having  amply  proved  his 
prowess  both  in  the  field  and  in  the  more  subtle  strife  of  the 
diplomatic  world,  he  apparently  designed  to  live  quietly  at  his 
home,  Pickering  House,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Andrew  Undershaft, 
London.  Fate,  however,  was  against  his  purpose,  for  we  learn 
that,  ‘ being  a brave,  wise  and  comely  English  gentleman,’  he  was 
seriously  thought  of  as  a suitor  for  Elizabeth’s  hand.  The 

1 I am  here  following  the  pedigrees  compiled  by  the  late  W.  Vade 
Walpole  and  by  Edward  Rowland  Pickering,  which  are  obviously  correct. 


Boreas  and  the  Dying  Leaves 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  pinxit 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICKERINGS 


137 

capricious  Queen  indeed  showed  him  such  marked  preference 
that  the  ambitious  courtiers  with  whom  she  was  surrounded 
became  alarmed.  In  1559  we  are  told  that  ‘ the  Earl  of  Arundel 
. . . was  said  to  have  sold  his  lands,  and  was  ready  to  flee  out 
of  the  kingdom  because  he  could  not  abide  in  England  if  the 
Queen  should  marry  Mr.  Pickering,  for  they  were  enemies.1 
Another  chronicler  with  a note  of  venom  relates  that  so  imperious 
was  the  speech  of  Sir  William,  so  overbearing  his  demeanour, 
and  so  lavish  his  expenditure  on  the  rich  dress  with  which  he 
adorned  his  handsome  person,  that  he  thereby  lent  a handle  to 
those  who  would  fain  have  wrought  his  undoing.  Nevertheless, 
although  he  excited  much  jealousy,  he  successfully  avoided  the 
pitfalls  which  beset  his  path  owing  to  the  too  open  admiration 
of  the  Queen,  and  eventually  succeeded — no  mean  feat  under 
the  circumstances — in  expiring  peacefully  with  his  comely  head 
still  intact  on  his  shoulders  and  his  neck  unclasped  by  the  hang- 
man’s rope.  To  Cecil  he  left  his  ‘ papers,  antiquities,  globes, 
compasses,’  and  his  favourite  horse. 

By  the  sixteenth  century,  the  Pickerings,  who  had  previously 
been  landowners  in  Westmorland  and  Yorkshire,  were  inhabiting 
the  fine  old  Tudor  mansion  of  Tichmarsh  in  Northamptonshire, 
now  completely  disappeared.  There,  in  1605,  Sir  Gilbert  Picker- 
ing gained  for  himself  great  kudos  for  his  activity  in  apprehending 
the  conspirators  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  although  amongst  them 
was  his  own  brother-in-law,  Robert  Keyes,  who,  in  consequence, 
suffered  for  such  ‘ apish  behaviour  ’ by  being  executed  in  com- 
pany with  Guy  Fawkes  at  Westminster.  Sir  Gilbert  died  in 
1613 ; and  in  Cromwellian  times  his  grandson,  Sir  Gilbert, 
Baronet  of  Nova  Scotia,  and  a brother  John,  of  Gray’s  Inn,  were 
prominent  Parliamentarians.  The  former,  to  whom  his  cousin 
John  Dryden,  the  poet,2  was  secretary,  sat  in  the  Long  Parlia- 
ment, being  also  one  of  the  Protector’s  Council,  and  of  his  House 
of  Lords.  He  was  moreover  one  of  the  Judges  of  Charles  I,  but 
he  attended  the  trial  only  at  the  outset,  and  was  not  of  those 

1 Cal.  State  Papers  for  For.  Ser.,  1559. 

8 The  connexion  between  the  two  Puritan  families  of  Dryden  and 
Pickering  was  a double  one.  Not  only  did  a Dryden  take  o wife  a Picker- 
ing, who  became  the  mother  of  the  poet,  but  a Pickering  took  to  wife  a 
Dryden.  * The  home  of  John  Dryden,’  we  are  told,  * was  at  Tichmarsh, 
where  his  father,  a younger  son  of  the  first  baronet  of  Canons  Ashby, 
had  settled.  Here  he  had  married  into  the  leading  family  of  the  place, 
the  Pickerings,  who  resided  at  the  great  house.  His  wife  was  Mary,  first 
cousin  of  Sir  Gilbert,  the  head  of  the  family,  and  daughter  of  Henry 
Pickering,  rector  of  Aldwincle  All  Saints,  and  it  was  at  her  father’s  rectory 
that,  in  1631,  John,  the  eldest  of  her  fourteen  children,  was  born.  An 
alliance  between  the  Drydens  and  the  Pickerings  was  the  more  natural 
in  that  both  families  were  strongly  Puritan,  and  took  the  side  of  the 
Parliament  in  the  Civil  War.’ — Highways  and  Byways  in  Northampton- 
shire, by  Herbert  A.  Evans,  p.  71. 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


138 

who  signed  the  death  warrant.  Thus  at  the  Restoration,  although 
he  was  declared  incapable  of  holding  public  office,  he  escaped 
more  drastic  punishment  through  the  intervention  of  his  brother- 
in-law,  Edward  Montague,  Earl  of  Sandwich ; indeed  Pepys 
tells  us  how  he  received  from  Lady  Pickering  ‘ wrapped  up  in  a 
paper,  £5  in  silver  * to  induce  him  to  use  his  influence  with  her 
brother,  ‘ my  Lord,  on  behalf  of  her  misguided  husband.’ 

During  the  Civil  War,  John,  the  brother  of  this  Sir  Gilbert, 
had  raised  the  ‘ Pickering  regiment  ’ for  the  Parliament  among 
his  Northamptonshire  neighbours,  and  distinguished  himself  at 
Naseby  and  elsewhere.  He  is  described  as  4 a little  man,  but 
of  great  courage  ’ ; nevertheless,  he  seems  to  have  been  wanting 
in  tact  and  a fanatic  of  more  pronounced  type  than  his  brother ; 
for  in  1645  he  caused  a mutiny  in  the  regiment  which  he  com- 
manded by  insisting  on  delivering  to  his  troopers  a rousing 
sermon  at  a moment  when  they  were  not  in  a suitable  frame 
of  mind  to  appreciate  such  an  attention  ! Another  brother, 
Edward,  was  a lawyer,  and  is  described  by  Roger  North  as  a 
‘ subtle  fellow,  a money-hunter,  a great  trifler,  and  avaricious, 
but  withal  a great  pretender  to  puritanism,  frequenting  the 
Rolls  Chapel,  and  most  busily  writing  the  sermon  in  his  hat  that 
he  might  not  be  seen.’  In  brief,  the  Pickerings  at  that  date, 
like  others  of  their  generation,  seemed  to  have  battened  on  a 
curious  mixture  of  sermons  and  sanctity,  of  shrewdness  and 
time-serving ; and  to  have  sought  Heaven  diligently  with  one 
eye  still  firmly  fixed  on  their  worldly  advantage. 

Nevertheless,  save  for  the  daughter  of  Sir  Gilbert  Pickering, 
the  beautiful  and  talented  Mistress  Betty,  afterwards  wife  to 
John  Creed  of  Oundle,  who  was  acclaimed  as  an  amateur  artist 
of  considerable  local  fame,  we  find  no  trace  through  the  passing 
of  the  centuries  that  the  family  at  Tichmarsh  distinguished 
themselves  in  the  gentler  arts  of  literature  or  painting ; where- 
fore it  is  curious  to  reflect  that  from  the  Puritan  Pickerings  and 
the  Huguenot  De  Morgans  should  have  sprung  two  descendants 
both  so  unlike  their  ancestors  in  this  respect  as  these  whose  life- 
story  we  are  here  reviewing. 

Glancing  on,  therefore,  swiftly  down  the  generations,  we 
come  to  Edward  Lake  Pickering,  of  the  Exchequer,  the  great- 
grandfather of  Evelyn  De  Morgan,  who  died  in  1788.  His  wife 
Mary  Umfreville,  lived  till  1836,  when  she  expired  in  her  93rd 
year,  a wonderful  old  lady  who  boasted,  approved  by  Burke, 
that  she  was  the  last  of  the  direct  branch  of  the  Umfrevilles, 
exhibiting  a pedigree  which  begins  with  the  Saxon  Kings  of 
England,  and  in  which  William  the  Conqueror  figures  as  a less 
important  unit  over  a century  and  a half  later.  This  couple 
had  two  sons,  who  survived  them,  of  whom  the  second  was  Edward 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICKERINGS 


139 

Rowland  Pickering,  of  Lincoln’s  Inn.  He  married  Mary  Vere, 
me  of  the  most  beautiful  women  of  her  day  ; and  to  them  were 
born  eight  sons  and  three  daughters. 

The  portraits  of  Edward  Rowland  which  are  extant  exhibit 
tiim  as  a man  of  middle  age,  shrewd  and  kindly  of  countenance, 
md  stately  of  pose  ; though  of  necessity  they  fail  to  convey  the 
quaint  courtliness  and  old-world  dignity  with  which  he  impressed 
all  who  came  in  contact  with  his  attractive  personality. 

‘ I delight  in  him,’  [wrote  Lady  Elizabeth  Spencer- Stanhope  enthusiasti- 
cally, after  meeting  him  for  the  first  time  at  the  date  of  her  daughter’s 
Engagement  to  his  son].  . . . ‘ He  is  exactly  like  the  description  of  an 
old  novel  of  Miss  Burney’s  ...  an  unmistakable  high-born  and  high-bred 
gentleman,  in  a brown  scratch-wig,  all  on  end  on  his  head,  with  an  indescrib- 
able mixture  of  kind-heartedness,  shrewdness  and  humour  in  his  counten- 
ance, standing  on  his  own  foundation,  and  feeling  that  his  son  and  his 
family  are  at  least  on  a par  with  any  nobleman  in  the  land.  ...  He  is  of 
the  same  class  of  original  as  Lord  Stanhope  and  Lord  Suffolk — a sort  of 
quaint,  clever  creature.  . . . His  pert  little  daughter-elect  cannot  think 
of  him  without  laughing,  and  he  seemed  inclined  to  laugh  at  himself  ! * 

And  later  she  writes  yet  more  enthusiastically  : — 

‘ I cannot  tell  you  how  delightful  Mr.  Pickering  pare  is,  quite  like  what 
one  reads  about  in  books,  but  never  meets  in  real  life  . . . how  you  would 
delight  in  him,  with  his  great  good-breeding  and  extreme  quaintness.  He 
is  very  clever  and  unusual  in  his  integrity  ; I long  for  you  to  meet  him, 
with  his  charming  old-world  manners  and  that  brown  scratch-wig  standing 
straight  upright  from  his  head  ! ’ 

As  to  his  wife,  ' my  dearest  partner  ’ as  he  generally  termed 
her,  Lady  Elizabeth,  on  first  meeting  her,  pronounced  her  to  be 
‘ one  of  the  most  gentle,  lovely,  loving,  and  I should  think  love- 
able of  human  beings  ’ — a description  which  aptly  summed  up 
the  characteristics,  and  possibly  the  limitations,  of  the  beautiful 
woman  who  won  admiration  from  all  whom  she  encountered. 
Throughout  the  passing  years,  Time  never  perceptibly  printed 
a wrinkle  on  the  smoothness  of  her  exquisite  skin,  nor  ruffled 
her  placid  outlook  on  a world  where,  for  her,  all  combined  to 
make  the  rough  ways  pleasant.  Gentle,  yielding,  and  charming 
from  youth  to  age,  generous  without  stint,  and  extravagant  to  a 
fault,  she  was  likewise  fastidious  in  many  ways  which,  to  a later 
generation  would  appear  difficult  of  credence,  but  which  never- 
theless seemed  a necessary  complement  to  her  own  individuality. 
For  one,  she  had  a horror  of  what,  to  her,  was  literally  ‘ filthy 
lucre  ’ and  refused  ever  to  soil  her  hands  by  touching  money 
which  had  been  used  before.  Coins  fresh  from  the  bank  were 
kept  by  her  in  little  round  boxes  of  horn  or  ivory,  suited  to  their 
size,  or  dainty  bags  of  wash-leather  tied  by  coloured  ribbon, 
and  to  these  still  cling  the  faint  aroma  of  the  attar  of  roses  which 
once  scented  the  pieces  of  shining  gold  or  silver  which  they 


140  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

guarded  so  carefully  from  any  chance  of  vulgar  contamination. 

Edward  Rowland  worshipped  his  beautiful  wife ; they 
remained  lovers  to  the  end  of  their  days ; and  as  an  old  man, 
on  the  rare  occasions  when  he  was  separated  from  her,  he  wrote 
to  her  letters  which  still  breathe  all  the  passionate  devotion  and 
tender  reverence  of  romantic  youth. 

Of  the  many  sons  and  daughters  born  to  this  couple,  seven 
survived  infancy ; and  of  these  Percival  Andree,  the  father  of 
Evelyn  De  Morgan,  was  the  second. 

An  anecdote  of  his  childhood  has  survived  which  at  least 
bespeaks  imagination  and  kindliness  of  heart.  Percy,  as  he 
was  called,  had  been  receiving  religious  instruction  from  his 
mother,  who  had  imparted  to  him  the  sad  fate  of  Adam  and 
Eve,  summed  up  in  that  melancholy  sentence  ‘ Dust  thou  art 
and  unto  dust  shalt  thou  return/  The  words  sank  into  the 
child’s  mind  and  made  an  impression  which  his  elders  little 
suspected.  Afterwards,  seated  at  the  window  gazing  out  on  to 
the  chill  March  day,  he  was  heard  to  be  weeping  bitterly.  Kind 
arms  enclosed  him,  and  sympathetic  inquiries  were  made  respect- 
ing the  cause  of  his  woe.  But  the  child  wept  on  unrestrainedly  ; 
till  at  length,  pointing  to  the  street  where  the  chill  winds  were 
blowing  the  dust  in  clouds  past  the  house,  he  exclaimed  tragically, 
‘ Oh  ! poor,  poor  Adam  and  Eve  ! — how  they  are  blowing  about  ! ' 
The  Divine  vengeance  which  had  apparently  condemned  our 
first  parents  to  drift  helplessly — and  dirtily — through  the  ages 
appalled  his  tender  heart  and  left  him  so  crushed  with  despair 
that  for  long  he  refused  to  be  comforted. 

In  those  days  the  custom  still  prevailed  of  concentrating  all 
care  and  expenditure  upon  the  education  of  the  eldest  son,  while 
furnishing  the  younger  members  of  the  family  only  with  the 
good  solid  instruction  suitable  to  whatever  profession  they  were 
destined  to  pursue.  Edward  Rowland  did  not  follow  this 
system.  Each  of  the  young  Pickerings  went  to  Eton,  where 
several  were  distinguished  both  as  scholars  and  cricketers,  and 
then  to  the  University.  At  Eton,  Percy  was  known  by  the 
name  of  ‘ Mop-stick  ’ on  account  of  his  curly  hair,  and  his  good 
looks  were  proverbial.  He  became  a great  friend  of  young 
William  Ewart  Gladstone,  who  for  many  years  subsequently 
kept  up  a correspondence  with  him,  in  which  he  expressed  himself 
enthusiastically  Tory  in  principle ; and  only  his  change  of 
politics,  later  in  life,  made  a severance  between  the  friends.  At 
Cambridge,  after  going  to  Trinity  College,  Percy,  like  his  elder 
brother,  became  a Fellow  of  St.  John’s  By  and  by,  at  the  Bar, 
he  was  noted  for  his  eloquence,  his  penetration  and  his  sense  of 
humour. 

He  was  past  forty  when  the  event  occurred  which  was  destined 
to  alter  all  the  remainder  of  his  days.  The  story  has  already 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICKERINGS  143 

been  told  in  The  Letter-bag  of  Lady  Elizabeth  Spencer-Stanhope  \ 
but  so  pretty  a romance  may  be  briefly  recapitulated. 

While  on  the  Northern  Circuit  Mr.  Pickering  went  to  stay 
with  his  friend  Mr.  Milnes  Gaskell  at  Thornes  House,  near  Wake- 
field, who,  one  day,  suggested  that  they  should  go  over  to  Cannon 
Hall,  a few  miles  off,  to  call  upon  Lady  Elizabeth  Spencer-Stan- 
hope and  her  charming  daughters.  Arrived  at  their  destination, 
however,  they  found  the  family  had  gone  to  attend  a school-treat 
which  was  taking  place  that  afternoon,  so  the  two  men  walked 
down  through  the  sunny  park  in  search  of  the  scene  of  festivity. 

Now  it  happened  that,  a short  time  before,  the  village  school- 
children  had  presented  Anna  Maria  Stanhope,  Lady  Elizabeth’s 
eldest  daughter,  with  a little  bonnet  of  white  plaited  straw  which 
they  had  made  for  her,  and  thinking  to  please  them  she  had 
decided  to  wear  it  on  this  occasion.  The  prim  little  headgear, 
shadowing  her  dark  hair  and  brilliant  eyes,  proved  singularly 
becoming,  but  her  sisters  had  laughed  at  her  for  wearing  it. 
‘ You  look  a perfect  Lucilla  ! ’ they  declared,  referring  to  Mrs. 
Hannah  More’s  novel ; ‘ All  that  is  wanted  is  Coelebs  in  search 
of  a wife  ! ’ 

And  as  though  their  words  were  prophetic,  Coelebs  appeared 
in  the  person  of  the  unknown  visitor,  and  as  instantly  fell  in 
love  with  the  girl  whom  he  saw  thus  for  the  first  time  enacting 
the  role  of  Lucilla — suitably  employed  playing  with  the  village 
children  in  the  park,  her  pretty  face  framed  in  the  simple  bonnet 
of  white  plaited  straw. 

But  the  course  of  the  romance  did  not  at  first  run  smoothly ; 
and  three  or  four  years  passed  before,  at  his  third  proposal,  his 
devotion  found  its  reward.  After  their  marriage  the  young 
couple  lived  first  in  Green  Street,  in  a little  house  with  a bay 
window,  now  pulled  down,  which  during  a former  generation 
had  sheltered  another  romance,  for  there  had  resided  the  beauti- 
ful Miss  Farren  who  became  Lady  Derby.  Later  they  removed 
to  No.  6 Upper  Grosvenor  Street ; and  there  their  eldest  daughter, 
Mary  Evelyn,  was  born,  while  there  also  during  the  years  which 
followed,  two  sons  and  then  another  daughter — the  present 
writer — came  into  existence. 

‘ There  was  no  hope  for  Evelyn  from  the  first  ! ’ her  mother 
used  to  say  laughingly,  in  view  of  an  episode  which  occurred 
at  the  child’s  christening.  A great-uncle,  Mr.  Charles  Stanhope, 
officiated  on  that  occasion,  a venerable  and  charming  person, 
who  nevertheless  was  noted  for  many  a malapropism  which 
severely  taxed  the  gravity  of  his  congregation.  At  the  period 
in  the  service  when  the  sponsors  are  called  upon  to  renounce  ail 
evil  on  behalf  of  the  unconscious  infant,  Mr.  Stanhope  turned 
to  them,  and  demanded  in  a stentorian  voice — ‘ Do  you,  in  the 
name  of  this  child,  promise  to  remember  the  devil  and  all  his 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


142 

works  ? * The  perplexed  god-parents,  faced  with  such  an  unex- 
pected dilemma,  and  feeling  it  useless  to  argue  the  point,  glanced 
helplessly  at  each  other  and  responded  fervently — ‘ We  do!* 

In  view,  however,  of  the  question  of  heredity,  it  may  be  well 
to  glance  at  the  heritage  which  the  young  mother  brought  to  her 
children  from  her  own  forbears,  and  which,  in  the  case  of  her 
eldest  daughter,  seems  to  have  been  a determining  factor  both 
in  regard  to  temperament  and  career. 

Mrs.  Pickering,  on  her  father’s  side,  came  of  two  families, 
the  Spencers  and  the  Stanhopes,  who  had  been  settled  in  York- 
shire since  the  Middle  Ages — a race  of  fine  old  country  Squires  of 
a type  now  rapidly  becoming  extinct,  men  who,  generation  after 
generation,  trod  reputably,  each  in  the  footsteps  of  his  pre- 
decessor, and  proved  themselves,  as  occasion  dictated,  shrewd 
magistrates,  bold  sportsmen,  brave  soldiers,  stout  topers,  pro- 
found scholars  or  fine  gentlemen.  But  they  were  apparently 
men  of  simple  lives  and  of  single  aims,  for  the  two  houses  which 
they  inhabited  show  little  trace  of  the  inveterate  dilettante  or 
collector,  nor  of  any  keen  lover  of  art  having  resided  in 
them. 

It  is  therefore  when  we  turn  to  the  family  of  Lady  Elizabeth, 
the  wife  of  John  Stanhope,  that  it  becomes  evident  whence  came 
the  artistic  element  which  was  to  develop  in  both  her  child  and 
grandchild. 

The  story  of  this  lady’s  family  has  been  told,  at  length,  else- 
where ; 1 for  our  present  purpose  it  must  suffice  to  say  that  she 
was  a direct  descendant  of  Thomas,  Earl  of  Leicester,  the  great 
dilettante  of  the  mid-eighteenth  century,  and  coadjutor  of 
another  famous  dilettante  and  architect,  Lord  Burlington. 
Thomas  Coke,  who  on  a barren  part  of  the  Norfolk  coast  erected 
a palace  of  Italian  art  and  filled  it  with  choice  treasures  of  anti- 
quity, was  the  possessor  of  a master-mind,  and  left  the  impress 
of  genius  on  all  with  which  he  dealt.  His  nephew  and  successor, 
the  father  of  Lady  Elizabeth,  better  known  as  ‘ Coke  of  Norfolk/ 
although  his  best  energies  were  concentrated  on  agriculture  and 
questions  of  practical  utility,  exhibited  gifts  which  equal)  ed 
those  of  his  predecessor. 

Throughout  his  life  he  was  the  liberal  patron  of  art  and 
literature,  and  showed  a fine  discriminating  taste  in  regard  to 
both,  while  the  masterly  manner  with  which  he  enhanced  the 
work  that  Thomas  Coke  had  commenced,  and  transformed  the 
bleak,  barren  land  surrounding  his  home,  is  matter  of  history 
But  a passionate  love  of  beauty  seemed  inherent  in  his  race,  the 
joy  in  exquisite  colour,  in  grace  of  outline,  in  perfection  of  detail 
— the  striving  after  idealism  even  in  the  most  commonplace 


1 Coke  of  Norfolk  and  his  friends,  by  A.  M.  W.  Stirling. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICKERINGS  143 

accessories  of  daily  life — combined  with  a hunger  for  creation 
and  a tireless  endeavour. 

Brought  up  in  such  an  atmosphere,  Coke’s  daughters 
developed  a resultant  love  of  art  which  early  bore  fruition.  His 
eldest  daughter,  afterwards  Lady  Andover,  was  only  fifteen 
when  she  painted  a most  remarkable  picture  with  about  five 
life-sized  figures,  of  Belisarius  begging — an  ambitious  and  success- 
ful work  even  for  an  artist  of  more  mature  age  ; while  the  second 
daughter,  afterwards  Lady  Anson,  also  showed  great  artistic 
talent.  Some  of  her  pictures,  painted  when  she  was  quite  young, 
both  original  portraits  and  copies  from  the  old  Masters,  are 
extraordinarily  clever ; while  the  exquisite  manner  in  which, 
later  in  life,  she  copied  and  renovated  some  of  the  delicate 
illuminations  in  the  old  missals  at  Holkham,  filled  Roscoe  with 
admiration. 

Both  she  and  her  sister  were  pupils  of  Gainsborough,  who 
stayed  at  Holkham  to  teach  them  ; and  although  it  is  impossible 
to  tell  if  the  master’s  brush  improved  the  pupil’s  work,  it  is 
certainly  difficult  in  some  instances  to  distinguish  between  the 
paintings  of  the  former  and  of  the  latter. 

Although  Lady  Elizabeth  did  not  herself  develop  a faculty 
for  Art  to  the  same  extent  as  did  her  two  elder  sisters,  the  talent 
for  which  her  family  had  become  conspicuous  showed  itself 
again  in  the  person  of  her  second  son.  Roddam  Spencer-Stan- 
hope, whom  we  have  already  had  occasion  to  mention,  became 
an  artist  of  no  mean  repute  who,  a friend  of  the  members  of  the 
pre-Raphaelite  brotherhood,  is  classed  by  posterity  as  one  of 
that  famous  band.  ‘ He  is  the  finest  colourist  in  Europe,’  Burne- 
Jones  said  of  him  ; and  his  works  show  an  almost  Southern  love 
of  deep,  glowing  colour,  and  a dainty  imagery  which  drifted 
into  fairy-tales  so  that  he  was  aptly  described  as  ‘ a painter  of 
dreams.’ 

It  is  interesting,  therefore,  to  note  that  the  passion  for  Art, 
combined  with  the  creative  faculty,  descended  in  three  successive 
generations  of  Mrs.  Pickering’s  family,  yet  in  each  instance  it 
was  a case  of  collateral,  not  direct,  descent. 

Mrs.  Pickering  herself  did  not  inherit  the  talent  which  her 
brother  developed,  although  as  a pupil  of  Harding  her  drawings 
and  sketches  are  remarkable  for  facility  and  breadth  of  char- 
acter. But  to  her,  as  to  so  many  of  her  generation.  Art  was 
primarily  a question  of  routine,  to  be  developed  by  careful 
instruction  and  conscientious  training,  while  the  imagination 
exhibited  by  the  so-called  pre-Raphaelite  School  always  remained 
a subject  for  amusement  rather  than  appreciation. 

Nevertheless,  she  was  a woman  of  exceptional  intellect,  whose 
cleverness  lay,  not  in  superficial  accomplishments,  but  in  deep 
thought  and  extensive  study,  and  early  did  she  devote  herself  to 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


144 

the  development  of  her  children’s  minds.  To  the  influence  of 
her  mentality  must  principally  be  attributed  the  love  of  intel- 
lectual pursuits  and  the  thirst  for  knowledge  which  may  be  said 
to  have  characterized  each  member  of  her  little  family.  She 
recognized  that,  during  her  own  childhood,  she  had  suffered 
much  from  the  narrowing  influence  of  the  governesses  of  her 
day,  with  their  limited  education  and  their  restricted  outlook 
upon  life,  and  she  therefore  determined  that  while  her  children 
should  have  every  benefit  of  an  education  aided  by  professional 
teachers,  they  should  not  be  abandoned  to  its  disadvantages. 
No  resident  governess,  therefore,  was  ever  admitted  into  the 
house  : masters  came  and  went,  the  most  efficient  that  money 
could  procure,  and  from  the  first  Evelyn  profited  by  the  same 
instruction  as  her  brother  ; she  learnt  Greek  and  Latin,  besides 
French,  German  and  Italian  ; she  studied  classical  literature, 
and  became  deeply  versed  in  mythology  : but  it  was  the  mother 
who  inspired  the  actual  love  of  knowledge  as  distinct  from  the 
drudgery  of  lessons. | 

In  all  her  children,  a recollection  of  their  early  years  was 
connected  with  what  proved  to  them  the  happiest  period  of  each 
day — the  hour  when  they  were  summoned  to  a flower-laden  room, 
and  their  mother  read  to  them  from  some  volume  of  absorbing 
interest.  To  her,  reading  aloud  was  a gift ; she  delighted  in 
it  ; and  her  clear,  musical  voice  ever  after  seemed  indissolubly 
linked  with  the  books  which  she  first  made  them  love.  The 
range  of  literature  thus  covered  was  wide  and  comprehensive ; 
but  where  the  books  which  were  available  on  any  particular 
subject  did  not  convey  the  exact  impression  she  wished  to  pro- 
duce, she  herself  supplied  the  deficiency.  Thus  history,  she 
found,  was  apt  to  be  written  in  a fashion  which  failed  to  grip 
the  imagination  of  a child,  so  she  wrote  a history  of  England 
for  her  children  of  arresting  interest,  dwelling  on  the  vital  facts 
to  be  remembered,  and  making  the  whole  so  graphic  that  it 
became  to  her  small  listeners  a living  actuality,  teeming  with 
romance.  Scientific  books,  too,  she  found  were  inevitably 
couched  in  language  ill-adapted  to  the  intelligence  of  her 
audience,  so  she  wrote  for  them  volumes  which  read  like  a fairy- 
tale : she  described  the  wonderful  prehistoric  world,  where  Man 
was  not,  but  where  strange  beasts  abounded,  and  the  dim  ante- 
diluvian forests  which  seons  of  time  had  fashioned  into  coal, 
pieces  of  which  were  then  burning  in  the  grate  of  the  cosy  little 
room  ; she  dwelt  on  the  discoveries  of  astronomy,  the  grand 
riddle  of  the  stars  which  looked  like  glittering  dust  strewn  over 
the  dome  of  heaven  ; the  marvels  of  chemistry,  of  geology,  of 
the  practical  application  of  many  recent  discoveries.  She  wrote 
fluently,  without  effort,  and  with  few  erasures ; indeed  the 
charm  and  the  facility  of  her  style  hint  what  success  in  the 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICKERINGS  145 

literary  world  would  have  been  hers  had  she  not  confined  hex 
talents  solely  to  this  labour  of  love.1 

How  her  children  appreciated  her  efforts  may  be  illustrated 
by  a trivial  incident.  It  happened  that  one  day  a dressmaker 
called  at  the  hour  devoted  to  this  daily  reading,  and  a message 
consequently  was  sent  up  to  the  nursery  that  the  children  were 
not  to  go  down  to  their  mother’s  room  as  usual.  The  blow 
was  unexpected,  and  the  eldest  boy,  Spencer,  afterwards  a 
scientist  cf  international  repute,  but  then  a minute,  self-important 
personage,  considered  that  this  innovation  was  not  to  be  borne. 
He  therefore  made  his  way  downstairs  as  fast  as  his  sturdy  little 
legs  would  carry  him,  and  boiling  with  rage,  marched  to  the 
dining-room  where  the  innocent  offender  was  seated  waiting 
till  Mrs.  Pickering  should  summon  her  for  a fitting.  As  the 
dressmaker  herself  afterwards  described,  the  door  suddenly 
opened  and  a small  boy  strode  up  to  her  with  a face  crimson 
with  rage.  ‘ You  wicked , wicked  woman  ! ’ he  exclaimed  vehe- 
mently ; then,  stamping  his  little  foot,  he  shook  his  fist  in  her 
face,  and  reiterating — ‘ / say  you’re  a wicked,  wicked  woman  ! ’ 
he  rushed  away  sobbing  as  though  his  heart  would  break.  It 
was  not  till  later  that  she  discovered  the  nature  of  her  offence  and 
of  the  animosity  with  which  she  was  ever  afterwards  regarded 
by  the  occupants  of  the  nursery — in  short,  that  she  had  deprived 
them  of  an  hour’s  lesson  in  English  history  ! 

Another  result  of  Mrs.  Pickering’s  instructions  was  that,  like 
the  mother  of  William  De  Morgan,  she  occasionally  found  herself 
brought  to  book  by  questions  difficult  of  elucidation,  but  which, 
to  her  small  audience,  presented  all  the  gravity  of  scientific 
problems.  ‘ Of  course  I know  that  God  made  Heaven  and 
Earth,’  Evelyn  remarked,  struggling  with  the  first  intricacies 
of  theology,  ‘ but  where  did  He  sit  when  He  made  them  ? ’ — While 
Rowland,  her  second  son,  one  night  after  he  had  been  lovingly 
deposited  in  his  little  wooden  crib,  sent  for  his  mother  in  a con 
dition  of  dire  anxiety,  ‘ Mamma,’  he  demanded,  ‘ when  the  sun 
goes  to  bed — who  tucks  him  up  ? ’ A vision  of  the  nocturnal 
arrangements  of  the  lonely  planet  disturbed  the  thoughts  of 
the  kindly  little  fellow,  and  as  his  father  had  been  distressed  at 
the  uncomfortable  fate  of  Adam  and  Eve,  he  too  refused  to  be 
pacified  by  what  seemed  to  him  vague  explanations  of  a harrow- 
ing problem. 

Another  matter  which  troubled  him  was  that  he  gleaned  from 
Evelyn’s  somewhat  lurid  side-lights  upon  religion  that  Christ’s 
second  coming  was  destined  to  take  place  in  a terrific  thunder- 

1 After  her  death,  a volume  was  published,  Memoirs  of  Anna  Maria 
Wilhelmina  Pickering,  which,  as  originally  written  by  her,  was  a far  more 
charming  collection  of  anecdotes,  jotted  down  haphazard  for  her  children, 
and  was  not  intended  for,  nor  arranged  for,  publication. 

K 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


146 

storm.  Consequently  never  did  an  electrical  disturbance  01 
the  elements  occur  that  he  was  not  filled  with  apprehension 
as  to  its  possible  result  ; and  one  day,  hearing  an  exceptionally 
loud  crash  in  the  heavens,  he  ran  to  his  mother  in  undisguised 
dismay  : ‘ My  goodness  ! * he  exclaimed,  casting  a worried  glance 
at  the  noisy  sky,  ‘ Don’t  you  think  that’s  enough  to  bring  Him  ? 1 

The  Pickering  nursery  indeed  presents,  in  much,  an  enter- 
taining contrast  to  the  De  Morgan  nursery  of  twenty  years 
earlier.  The  over-conscientious  training  resorted  to  in  the 
former,  the  microscopic  attention  devoted  to  trifles,  the  constant 
chastisements  for  childish  peccadilloes  are  all  absent.  The  small 
Pickerings  were  carefully  brought  up ; they  were  highly  edu- 
cated ; the  number  of  their  pastors  and  masters  was  almost 
abnormal ; but  perhaps  some  of  the  aggressiveness  of  their 
ancestors  had  entered  into  their  veins,  for  no  instructors,  however 
well  qualified  or  highly  remunerated,  succeeded  in  suppressing, 
or  even  moulding,  their  individuality. 

As  between  the  births  of  the  older  and  the  younger  children 
was  a space  of  some  years,  Evelyn  and  her  brother  Spencer,  who 
was  only  three  years  his  sister’s  junior,  were  perforce  com- 
panions, and  remained  like  a generation  apart  from  their  two 
successors  in  the  nursery.  They  were  both  gifted  with 
exceptional  good  looks,  although  Evelyn,  from  childhood,  may 
be  said  to  have  been  handsome  rather  than  pretty.  Her  features 
were  finely  formed,  the  nose  small  and  straight,  the  mouth  less 
regular ; the  eyelids  covering  her  blue-grey  eyes  were  full  and 
rounded,  indicative  of  imagination  ; and  her  hair,  in  long  brown 
tresses,  shading  to  gold,  fell  in  waves  to  her  waist.  Her 
expression  was  full  of  life  and  intelligence,  though  always  marked 
by  a noticeable  discontent ; her  hands  were  characteristic — 
small  but  lithe  and  firm,  with  the  tapering  fingers  of  the  idealist ; 
while  her  whole  personality,  from  childhood  to  age,  conveyed  an 
impression  of  virility,  of  restlessness,  and  of  a mind  eager  to 
absorb  and  to  achieve,  combined  with  a temperament  highly 
strung  and  perhaps  abnormally  sensitive  to  suffering  and  to  joy. 

Spencer,  in  those  nursery  days,  was  of  a more  pronounced 
beauty  than  his  sister,  a child  who  inevitably  arrested  attention 
with  his  exquisitely  formed,  delicate  little  features,  his  fair 
skin  tinted  like  a peach,  and  his  hair  of  bright  gold  which  fell 
in  a luxuriant  mass  of  curls  nearly  the  same  length  as  did  that 
of  his  sister.  Even  when  custom  necessitated  his  locks  being 
shorn,  the  curls,  in  defiance  of  his  most  laborious  attempts  at 
brushing  and  plastering  them  down,  still  clustered  thickly  over 
his  shapely  head,  so  that  later  at  Eton,  on  account  of  his 
good  looks  and  classical  features,  he  was  known  as  ‘ the 
young  Antinous.’  In  the  days  of  babyhood,  however,  George 
Frederick  Watts  enthusiastically  pronounced  him  and  his  sister 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICKERINGS 


147 

Evelyn  to  be  the  most  beautiful  children  he  had  ever  seen,  and 
having  expressed  a wish  to  paint  Spencer,  he  completed  a portrait 
begun  by  Cosens,  which  shows  a little  face  of  rare  loveliness  and 
refinement. 

Meanwhile  Spencer,  although  a nursery  autocrat  and  possessed 
of  an  imperious  temper,  was  completely  in  subjection  to  his 
sister  who,  by  virtue  of  her  seniority,  generally  made  him  the 
tool  for  her  many  escapades.  ‘ How  I envy  you,’  Mrs.  Pickering 
used  to  relate  that  an  affected  lady  once  said  languidly  to  her — 
4 you  are  so  fortunate  to  have  a girl  at  the  head  of  your  nursery  ! ’ 
— ‘ I thought  to  myself,’  Mrs.  Pickering  used  to  add  with  amuse- 
ment— ‘ that  depends  on  the  girl ! ’ for  Evelyn  was  never  a cipher 
or  a saint. 

* Why  are  you  so  glad  not  to  have  another  sister  ? ’ Spencer 
was  asked,  it  having  been  observed  that  he  heaved  a sigh  of  relief 
on  being  informed  of  the  birth  of  his  younger  brother.  * Girls 
are  such  pinchers  ! ’ was  the  reply,  at  once  fervent  and  concise. 

None  the  less,  at  times  he  seems  to  have  adopted  the  tactics 
of  his  sister.  One  day  the  French  governess,  a certain  Madame 
Mori,  came  to  Mrs.  Pickering  to  ask  for  a private  interview, 
professing  herself  to  be  in  despair  at  the  unmanageability  of  her 
charges.  Mrs.  Pickering,  in  order  to  be  secure  from  interruption 
and  possible  eavesdropping,  took  the  excited  Frenchwoman  into 
an  inner  room,  off  her  bedroom,  half  dressing-room,  half  boudoir, 
which  had  only  one  exit.  There,  having  closed  the  door  care- 
fully, she  listened  to  a string  of  complaints  uttered  in  voluble 
French,  and  proceeded  to  discuss  the  situation,  dwelling  at  great 
length  on  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  respective  culprits  and  the 
wisest  means  to  be  adopted  in  order  to  bring  both  to  a better 
frame  of  mind.  By  the  window  of  the  room,  however,  where 
this  consultation  took  place,  was  a dressing-table,  adorned  in 
the  then  fashion  with  a pink  calico  cover  shrouded  in  lace  like  a 
lady  in  a voluminous  skirt ; and  suddenly  from  the  recesses  of 
this  came  a howl  of  agony.  ‘ Spencer  ! ’ was  heard  in  piercing 
accents — ‘ Oh  ! you  pinch  so  ! ’ A hurried  investigation  revealed 
the  fact  that  throughout  the  entire  interview  the  two  delinquents 
had  been  seated  in  this  rosy  tent  listening  with  the  greatest  zest 
to  the  tale  of  their  misdeeds,  and  to  the  despairing  suggestions 
of  a possible  remedy  I 

Out  of  the  many  now  forgotten  pranks  of  those  early  days 
one  is  still  remembered,  possibly  on  account  of  its  unusual  daring 
or  its  disastrous  sequel.  It  must  first  be  explained  that,  with 
the  exception  of  the  birthdays  of  Mr.  Pickering  and  his  eldest 
son,  all  such  family  anniversaries  fell  between  August  26  and  30 
— indeed  August  28  was  the  birthday  both  of  Mrs.  Pickering  and 
her  second  son  Rowland.  Hence  arose  an  opening  for  injustice. 
Although  the  season  of  such  festivities  might  clash  or  overlap. 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


148 

the  children  considered  that  the  mere  accident  of  date  ought 
not  to  interfere  with  what  was  their  right ; four  separate  holidays 
were  undoubtedly  their  due,  and  four  separate  birthday  cakes  ; 
so  that  an  attempt  made  by  the  elders  to  compress  both  feast 
and  festivity — to  make  one  holiday  and  one  cake  do  for  two 
events — was  bitterly  resented.  Evelyn  indeed  felt  that  a great 
principle  was  at  stake,  and  on  the  approach  of  a day  when  she 
maintained  that  one  of  the  birthdays  ought  to  be  kept  but  the 
powers  in  authority  decreed  that  lessons  should  be  done,  she 
boldly  determined  that  such  an  injustice  should  not  be 
perpetrated.  Late  on  the  evening  of  the  day  before,  therefore, 
every  lesson-book  was  carefully  collected  by  her  and  entrusted 
to  the  care  of  Spencer,  a small  and  alarmed  victim.  The  house 
in  Grosvenor  Street  overlooked  a mews  at  the  back,  and  Spencer, 
acting  under  his  sister’s  orders,  after  dusk  climbed  on  to  the 
balcony  railing  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  succeeded  in  thrusting 
the  pile  of  lesson-books  on  to  the  roof  of  the  neighbouring  stables. 

In  the  morning  when  the  governess  arrived,  great  was  her 
astonishment  upon  being  informed  that  every  single  lesson-book 
had  mysteriously  disappeared.  The  reason  of  the  disappear- 
ance, however,  was  so  transparent  that  her  wrath  would  not  be 
appeased,  and  she  insisted  that  the  books  should  be  found. 
Accordingly,  hour  after  hour  throughout  the  day  was  spent  in  a 
fruitless  search,  the  two  conspirators  enjoying  themselves  greatly, 
and  protesting,  with  entire  truth,  that  not  a single  volume 
appeared  to  be  anywhere  in  the  house.  In  this  fashion  the 
holiday  was  secured,  and  the  following  morning  early  Spencer 
was  sent  to  retrieve  the  missing  books.  But  unfortunately  it 
had  rained  in  the  night ; they  were  found  to  be  sodden  with  wet, 
the  covers  of  those  which  had  been  uppermost  were  reduced  to 
pulp,  and  thus  the  true  facts  of  the  case  were  apparent.  History 
draws  a discreet  veil  over  the  sequel. 

The  fact  that  the  back  windows  of  their  home  commanded  a 
view  of  the  mews  proved  a never-failing  source  of  entertainment 
to  the  children.  They  watched  the  carriages  and  horses  come 
and  go,  they  knew  the  various  drivers  by  sight,  and  established 
a bowing  acquaintance  with  some.  Lord  Foley’s  coachman  in 
a cocked  hat  was  the  object  of  their  never-failing  admiration ; 
and  just  as  William  De  Morgan  in  his  nursery  twenty  years 
earlier  had  decided  that  when  he  attained  to  man’s  estate  he 
would  be  a sweep  and  a Jack-in-the- Green,  so- — alas  ! for  the 
mutability  of  human  wishes  I — did  Spencer  Pickering  determine 
that  he  would  one  day  be  a coachman  and  thrill  all  onlookers 
with  a portly  presence  and  envied  headgear. 

By  and  by,  a species  of  Dumb-Crambo  friendship  was 
instituted  by  the  children  with  some  of  the  residents  in  the  stables 
below,  and  another  particularly  attractive  coachman  and  his 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICKERINGS 


149 

wife,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  were  known  to  them  by  the 
names  of  the  ‘ He  ha  ! ha  ! ' and  the  ‘ She  ha  ! ha  l * The  ‘ She 
ha  ! ha  ! ’ must  have  developed  a decided  affection  towards  the 
two  mischievous  sprites  who  signalled  greetings  to  her  from  the 
balcony,  for  soon  a more  satisfactory  mode  of  communication 
with  them  was  established.  A string  was  let  down  by  the  chil- 
dren to  which  pieces  of  toffy  of  their  own  making  were  attached 
as  a gift  to  their  unknown  friend,  who  subsequently  used  to  sign 
to  them  to  let  it  descend,  when  she  would  tie  on  to  it  a little 
basket  filled  with  delicious  cakes  and  tartlets  of  her  own  baking 
which  she  watched  mount  to  the  balcony  with  supreme  satis- 
faction. This  mode  of  communication  may  have  been  suggested 
by  hearing  the  nurses  discuss  the  reprehensible  behaviour  of  Miss 
De  Horsey,  who  lived  next  door,  and  who  used  to  electrify  the 
respectable  neighbourhood  by  letting  down  a string  weighted  by 
a bit  of  coal,  at  the  hour  when  Lord  Cardigan  rode  past.  To 
this  the  latter  attached  his  billets-doux , which  were  promptly 
hauled  up  by  the  lady,  until  such  time  as  she  threw  the  last 
remnant  of  discretion  to  the  winds,  and  departed  finally  from 
her  father’s  house  to  the  protection  of  her  married  lover.  Till 
that  took  place,  however,  her  vagaries  continued  to  furnish 
perpetual  food  for  comment  throughout  Upper  Grosvenor  Street, 
as  did  her  startling  costumes  ; and  the  children  at  No.  6 used 
to  watch  her  set  out  on  her  horse  daify,  clothed  in  one  of  the 
remarkable  riding-habits  which  she  affected — one  was  a bright 
green  cloth,  one  a violet  velvet,  and  one  a black  velvet,  with  each 
of  which  she  used  to  wear  a hat  adorned  with  nodding  plumes. 

Nevertheless,  as  Evelyn  had  established  a human  interest 
in  regard  to  the  denizens  of  the  mews  at  the  back  of  her  home, 
so  what  was  termed  a balcony  friendship  was  instituted  with 
certain  children  who  lived  opposite,  the  family  of  Sir  John, 
afterwards  Lord,  St.  Aubyn.  Since  their  respective  parents 
were  not  acquainted,  the  children  held  that  neither  were  they 
acquainted  in  the  orthodox  sense,  wherefore  they  would  pass 
each  other  in  the  street  with  a blank  expression  and  punctiliously 
averted  faces  ; but  on  their  opposite  balconies  they  were  friends, 
and  a species  of  communication  was  established  by  signalling 
which  was  a source  of  amusement  to  each.  Soon,  when  their 
respective  elders  were  safely  out  of  the  way,  little  plays  were 
enacted  on  each  balcony  for  the  benefit  of  the  opposite  neigh- 
bour, or  charades  performed  with  gesticulations  which  took  the 
place  of  words,  when  the  performers  used  to  dress  up  in  a fashion 
that  amazed  the  passers-by  who  could  catch  occasional  glimpses 
of  them  from  the  street  below.  At  length,  one  day,  Mrs.  Picker- 
ing, returning  early  from  a drive,  observed  a small  but  interested 
crowd  gathered  near  her  house,  on  the  balcony  of  which  two 
minute  Christy  minstrels  with  blackened  faces  were  performing 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


150 

on  the  bones  and  banjo.  After  this,  the  balcony  theatricals 
were  continued  with  more  difficulty,  on  account  of  the  closer 
supervision  to  which  the  would-be  actors  were  subjected,  and 
the  Tragic  Muse  was  principally  in  demand  at  their  performances 
owing  to  the  superior  noiselessness  of  pathos  to  buffoonery. 

A far  from  silent  assistant  on  these  occasions,  however,  was 
a beautiful  green  parrot  which  used  to  swing  contentedly  in  a 
cage  on  the  balcony  of  No.  6,  and  who  may  be  considered 
to  have  been  the  unconscious  instrument  in  an  unsuspected 
train  of  events.  Lady  Mary  Waddup,  as  she  was  called — the 
surname  being  bestowed  out  of  compliment  to  the  cook — had 
once  occupied  her  post  of  vantage  while  the  house  was 
being  painted,  and  ever  afterwards  she  indulged  in  an  accom- 
plishment which  she  had  learnt  on  this  occasion.  With  her 
head  cocked  on  one  side,  and  a mischievous  gleam  in  her  bright 
eyes,  she  would  wait  with  uncanny  shrewdness  till  some  unwary 
passer-by  came  near,  when  she  would  call  out  in  a piercing  voice 
— * Take  care  ! Take  care  ! Wet  paint  ! Wet  paint  ! ’ The 
victim  of  this  farce  would  naturally  start  and  anxiously  examine 
his  or  her  garments,  then  glance  in  perplexity  at  the  paint,  and 
next  at  the  balcony  whence  came  the  shrill  warning,  but  where 
no  one  was  visible.  Needless  to  say,  the  children  rejoiced  in 
this  performance,  till  poor  ‘ Lady  Mary  ’ came  to  an  untimely 
end  by  devouring  the  heads  of  a box  of  matches  which  she  pulled 
into  her  cage.  The  nurses  in  relating  her  sad  fate  always  referred 
to  the  instruments  of  her  destruction  as  ‘ Lucifer  matches,’  and 
an  impression  consequently  gained  ground  amongst  the  small 
occupants  of  the  nursery  that  the  Prince  of  Darkness  had 
specially  baited  the  delicacy  which  had  proved  the  undoing  of 
their  favourite. 

It  may  have  been  the  conduct  of  ‘ Lady  Mary  ’ in  regard  to 
innocent  pedestrians  which  suggested  another  amusement  that 
was  in  great  favour  with  its  perpetrators,  till  one  day  it  mis- 
carried in  an  alarming  manner.  Like  the  green  parrot,  the 
conspirators  would  watch  from  the  balcony  till  some  suitable 
victim  was  selected  from  amongst  those  who  passed  below, 
whereupon  a slight  shower  of  water  would  be  sprinkled  judici- 
ously and  fall,  ‘ like  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven,’  upon  the  devoted 
head  of  the  surprised  recipient.  If  the  victim  started  and, 
glancing  up  at  the  heavens,  prepared  to  unfurl  an  umbrella,  great 
was  the  triumph  of  the  unseen  onlookers ; but  one  day  the  jest 
was  carried  too  far.  Evelyn,  armed  with  a squirt  and  guarded 
by  Spencer  who  acted  as  sentinel,  hid  behind  the  creeper  on  the 
balcony.  Soon  she  espied  a man  coming  down  the  street  whose 
self-complacency  seemed  to  call  for  drastic  treatment.  He  was 
wearing  pale  grey  trousers,  white  spats  and  shiny  boots,  a 
faultless  grey  top  hat,  a white  button-hole  and  lavender  kid 


Panel  of  six  tiles,  representing  a long-necked  bottle  with  roses,  the  bottle  itself 
being  decorated  with  turquoise-blue  flowers  on  a dark  blue  ground. 

Height  24  inches.  Width  16  inches. 

[At  the  Victoria  & Albert  Museum,  London 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICKERINGS  151 

gloves ; his  walk  was  conceited  and  his  air  of  self-satisfaction 
was  aggressive. 

Directly  he  was  within  range,  she  took  aim,  and  with  a well- 
directed  ‘ squirt  ’ sent  a shower  upon  the  fop  below  and  bobbed 
out  of  sight.  She  heard  an  exclamation,  followed  by  a pause, 
and  then  a ring  at  the  front-door  vibrated  with  ominous  signi- 
ficance through  the  house.  In  a sudden  panic  she  fled  to  the 
nursery,  while  her  drenched  victim  below  demanded  furiously 
to  see  ‘ the  lady  of  the  house.’  Mrs.  Pickering,  on  being  told 
what  had  happened,  in  some  alarm  refused  to  go  down,  and 
sent  the  head  nurse  Loutitt,  a responsible  Scottish  body,  to 
pacify  the  injured  stranger,  and,  incidentally,  to  dry  him.  But 
he  would  accept  no  apology. 

‘ Such  behaviour  is  a scandal ! ’ he  protested  ; * I insist  on 
seeing  the  boy  who  acted  in  this  manner  that  I may  give  him  a 
lesson  he  will  not  forget.’  ‘ It  was  no  boy,’  responded  the  nurse 
firmly,  ‘ but  our  young  leddy.  She  will  be  doing  the  things  she 
should  not ! ' But  the  stranger  insisted  that  this  was  not  the 
truth — he  had  seen  a boy  upon  the  balcony,  and  unless  he  could 
have  every  assurance  that  that  obnoxious  boy  should  be  flogged, 
he  would  fetch  the  police.  At  length  the  nurse,  in  self-defence, 
sent  for  Evelyn,  and  when  a particularly  gentle  and  pretty- 
mannered  little  girl  entered,  and  admitted  that  it  was  she  who 
had  wantonly  damaged  his  top  hat,  the  stranger  appeared  dis- 
concerted ; he  blustered  more  feebly,  and  soon,  with  some  mild 
admonitions  to  her  not  to  indulge  again  in  that  particular  form 
of  recreation,  he  seized  his  damp  headgear  and  took  his  departure. 

Apparently  as  a result  of  this  untoward  incident,  one  form  of 
entertainment  in  which  the  children  had  delighted  was  banned 
by  the  nurses.  Before  the  days  when  orthodox  drawing-lessons 
were  instituted  as  part  of  the  school-room  routine,  they  had  been 
given  little  boxes  of  paints  with  which  they  began  to  draw  and 
colour  crude  pictures.  The  mess  which  they  made,  however, 
with  the  tinted  water,  and  the  consequent  damage  to  their 
clothes,  was  seized  upon  by  the  powers  which  ruled  in  the  nursery 
as  an  excuse  to  forbid  an  otherwise  harmless  occupation ; and 
in  order  to  enforce  compliance  with  this  prohibition,  all  water- 
bottles  and  jugs  were  placed  beyond  the  reach  of  small  arms 

Evelyn,  however,  who  had  found  the  amusement  congenial, 
was  determined  not  to  be  thwarted  in  this  manner.  She  there- 
fore provided  herself  with  a doll’s  tea-pot,  and  when  she  went 
out  for  a walk  with  the  nurses  she  lagged  behind  and  hurriedly 
stole  water  from  the  gutters  or  puddles  with  which,  in  secret, 
she  contrived  to  pursue  her  amusement  unsuspected.  A few 
of  these  early  attempts  at  Art  have  survived — some  flowers 
cleverly  drawn  and  some  spirited  figures  in  vivid  garments ; 
but  these  are  not  more  remarkable  than  similar  attempts  by  other 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


152 

girls  of  her  age.  What  is  of  interest  to  note  is  the  determination 
of  so  small  a child  and  the  patient  persistence  with  which  she 
achieved  her  object  in  spite  of  opposition.  This  must  have  been 
all  the  more  difficult  because  of  the  extreme  vigilance  with  which 
she  and  her  brothers  were  guarded  when  out  walking  at  that 
date.  There  had  for  some  time  been  a great  scare  caused  by  the 
frequent  cases  of  child-stealing  which  had  occurred.  Children 
had  been  kidnapped  with  diabolical  cleverness  and  kept  for  a 
reward,  or  in  more  tragic  instances  had  disappeared  and  been 
heard  of  no  more.  So  alarmed,  therefore,  had  Mr.  Pickering 
become  at  the  recurrence  of  this  crime  that  he  always  had  a 
nurse  a-piece  for  each  of  his  children,  and  all  were  well  drilled 
in  the  necessity  for  closely  guarding  their  charges — from  the 
staid  head-nurse,  before  mentioned,  to  a prototype  of  the  De 
Morgans’  ‘ Janey  ’ of  twenty  years  earlier — a pretty,  younger 
Jane,  who  at  the  age  of  sixteen  entered  a service  which  she  never 
afterwards  quitted 


A Sketch  in  Pencil 
by  William  De  Morgan. 


“ Hanging  Day” 


CHAPTER  VII 


PEN-DRIFT 

(To  be  omitted  by  the  captious) 

IN  studying  the  psychology  of  a child,  and  striving  to  trace 
the  source  of  its  ultimate  development,  one  inevitably  seeks 
the  clue  in  its  first  halting  attempts  at  self-expression.  For  as 
the  greater  events  of  Life  hinge  on  trivialities,  so  the  growth  of 
mentality  seems  equally  a sequence  of  Chance — a perplexing 
tangle  of  Cause  and  Effect — in  which  heredity  and  environment 
are  eternally  dominating  some  erratic  hazard  of  the  die. 

Of  late,  however,  so  much  attention  has  been  directed  to 
the  effusions  of  youthful  authors  and  poets — most  of  whom  in 
after-life  belied  their  early  promise — that  one  hesitates  to  add 
to  the  number.  Yet  a peep  into  the  mind  of  a very  young  child 
is  not  without  amusement,  and  a few  quotations,  unexpurgated 
in  spelling  and  diction,  may  be  given,  since  the  reader  who  so 
prefers  can,  without  loss  of  consecutiveness  in  the  context, 
leave  this  entire  chapter  unread. 

To  Evelyn,  a restless  child  teeming  with  imagination  which 
had  as  yet  found  no  adequate  outlet,  the  idea  of  venting  her 
thoughts  on  paper  first  came  through  an  unexpected  channel, 
and  was  eagerly  adopted. 

In  the  back  drawing-room  of  the  house  in  Upper  Grosvenor 
Street  was  a large  china  bowl  filled  with  little  scrolls  of  parch- 
ment yellow  with  age,  tied  by  coloured  ribbons.  Each  of  these 
contained  a 4 Fate  ’ in  verse,  written  in  a fine,  pointed  hand  by 
some  ingenious  ancestor.  Visitors  attracted  by  the  sight  of 
these  tiny  scrolls  would  dip  their  hands  into  the  bowl  and  read 
their  1 fortune  ’ in  prim,  old-fashioned  verse.  ‘ They  give  people 
something  to  talk  about  when  we  are  waiting  for  dinner  ! ' Mrs, 
Pickering  used  to  say  if  anyone  asked  her  about  these  scrolls, 
and  once  she  appended  a story  in  this  connexion  which  impressed 
itself  on  Evelyn’s  imagination. 

Going  to  a dinner-party  one  night,  she  noticed  the  drawing- 
room table  to  be  dotted  about  with  strange  penny  toys  and 
cheap  wooden  figures — whereupon  her  hostess,  observing  her 
glance  at  these  queer  ornaments,  explained  their  use.  ‘ Men/ 

153 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


154 

she  said,  4 never  know  what  to  do  with  their  hands  ! I usually 
have  nice  ivories  and  knick-knacks  on  my  table ; but  when  I 
have  a dinner-party  I put  them  all  away.  If  there  is  anything 
lying  about,  so  surely  the  men  will  toy  and  fiddle  with  it  till  they 
break  it.  I lately  had  a valuable  ivory  destroyed  that  way, 
and  the  man  never  even  noticed  that  he  had  snapped  it  in  two  ! 
Now  I put  about  these  little  rubbishes,  and  you  will  see  that 
they  answer  my  purpose.’  And  so  it  befell  that  directly  some 
men  arrived  at  that  dinner-party,  first  one  and  then  another, 
idling  near  the  table,  picked  up  the  penny  knick-knacks  and, 
without  noticing  what  these  were,  absently  twisted  and  turned 
and  toyed  with  them,  while  Mrs.  Pickering  and  her  hostess 
exchanged  amused  glances  ! 

Possibly  the  crowded  centre-table  which  figured  in  all  draw- 
ing-rooms at  that  date  offered  an  element  of  temptation,  since 
eliminated,  to  the  Victorian  diner-out ; but  the  mysterious,  Scrolls 
of  Fate  in  the  bowl  became  a source  of  interest,  not  unmixed  with 
awe,  to  Evelyn ; and  apparently,  having  grasped  their  value  as 
conversation-providers  at  social  functions,  she  determined  to 
manufacture  some  duplicates  on  her  own  account.  In  a small 
ivory  box  are  still  the  little  rolls  of  paper  inscribed  by  her  with 
verses  in  a babyish  hand ; but  surprised  spinsters,  testing 
futurity  at  her  invitation,  must  have  felt  that  the  information 
furnished  was  unexpectedly  decisive.  One  roll,  with  an  air  of 
relentless  finality,  proclaims  : — 

* Cast  on  a desert  Island  thou  shalt  be 
And  canibles  shall  come  and  devour  thee  ! * 

While  another  contains  a grave  warning  against  erudition 
carried  to  excess  : — 

* Crammed  full  of  knowledge  thou  shalt  burst 
For  craving  to  become  the  first.’ 

A third,  indeed,  suggests  a sop  to  vanity : — 

* A thousand  sutors  shall  for  thee  sigh 
But  in  a Convent  thou  shalt  dye  ! ’ 

But  though  expiring  in  a Convent  might  be  rendered  more 
exhilarating  by  the  thought  of  those  thousand  unhappy  suitors 
sighing  vainly  without  the  walls,  apart  from  consolations  such 
as  these,  all  the  prognostications  have  a sinister  note  ; even  those 
which  contain  a faint  element  of  gaiety  temper  it  with  a counter- 
blast of  disaster  to  follow. 

* In  the  ball-room  dance  away 
For  thy  life  is  short  and  gay  ! ’ 


PEN-DRIFT 


155 

is  scarcely  a suggestion  conducive  to  rendering  a ball  more 
enjoyable  ; while  even  the  most  cheerful  of  the  series  hints  at 
the  hollowness  of  seeming  bliss  : — 

‘ With  beauteous  face  and  empty  hart 
In  the  world  thou’ 11  bear  thy  part ! * 

is  a prophecy  which,  although  not  explicit  in  its  indication  of 
exactly  what  part  its  victim  was  to  play,  at  least  successfully 
conveys  a sense  of  false  merriment  with  an  aching  void  beneath  ! 

None  the  less,  it  was  these  foolish  little  ‘ Scrolls  of  Fate  ’ 
which  first  suggested  to  the  child  the  notion  of  trying  to  give 
some  concrete  form  to  the  drifting  fancies  of  her  brain.  Subse- 
quently verses,  plays  and  short  stories  poured  from  her  pen, 
together  with  unfinished  ‘ novels/  usually  abandoned  after  the 
first  few  chapters  for  some  newer  idea  or  plot.  Each  attempt 
at  fiction  has  an  introductory  preface,  a solemn  dedication,  and 
an  appropriate  verse  of  unmitigated  gloom.  All  show  the  same 
characteristic — an  inability  to  spell  the  simplest  words  and  a 
greater  accuracy  when  penning  big  ones — indicative  of  recourse 
to  a dictionary  where  this  was  understood  by  the  small  writer 
to  be  imperative.  A copy-book,  bearing  the  title  The  Child* s 
Own  Fairy-Book , written  at  the  age  of  eight,  opens  as  follows  : — 

PREFACE 

* My  object  in  writing  this  book  is  for  the  amusement  of  children  between 
six  and  seven  years  old,  and  I greatly  hope  that  with  the  help  of  my  brother 
Mr.  Spencer  Pickering  [ then  aged  five],  who  has  been  so  kind  as  to  allow  me 
to  dedicate  this  book  to  him,  I may  be  able  to  succeed .’ 

And  the  tale  which  follows,  written  by  a child,  herself  half 
faery,  half  sprite,  is  full  of  quaint  and  dainty  fancies,  an  odd 
mingling  of  the  material  and  the  ethereal,  and  of  many  a way- 
ward conceit  which  surely  afterwards  matured  into  the  pictures 
that  she  painted.  Of  the  Fairies’  Palace  she  writes  — 

‘ First  of  all  I must  tell  you  about  there  Palace,  it  was  a beautiful 
bilding  composed  entirely  of  diamonds,  and  was  lined  inside  with  emeralds. 
There  were  an  hundred  rooms  in  it  not  including  the  great  Hall  (for  I 
supose  you  know  that  fairys  live  in  comunities  and  that  every  comunity 
has  its  Queen).  There  beds  were  made  of  gold  and  lined  with  the  softest 
Ider  down.  There  was  too  a book  which  was  held  most  dear  to  them  and 
was  kept  by  their  Queen  Graciocia,  it  was  called  the  Dumet.  This  Dumet 
contained  all  the  Fairy’s  reites  and  cerimonies,  and  also  all  they  had  the 
right  to  do.  Now  all  Fairys  have  spectacels  without  glasses  and  made 
of  diamond  wire  and  called  slumes  which  they  always  wore  but  which 
when  on  you  never  can  discern,  with  these  wires  they  can  see  all  invisibel 
things,  and  also  if  they  have  them  on,  they  can  become  visibel  or  invisibel 
just  as  the  chouse.  . . 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


156 

And  one  finds  oneself  wondering  whether  the  little  writer 
herself  wore  slumes  which  enabled  her  to  see  so  much  beauty  in 
the  world  around  not  ‘ visibel  ’ to  others.  But  alas  ! in  the 
story  the  wonderful  Fairy  Palace  with  its  diamond  exterior  and 
emerald  ‘ lining  ’ vanishes  all  too  abruptly  to  be  explained  away 
by  the  following  sententious  note  : — 

‘ The  preceding  fairy-tale  was  begun  at  an  early  age  hut  was  unfortunately 
never  terminated  as  the  authoress  was  called  to  more  pressing  duties 

This  effort  is  immediately  followed  in  the  same  copy-book  by 
a more  ambitious  work,  which  announces  itself  to  be  Nora  de 
Brant : a Novel ; and  which  also  has  a preface  as  follows  : — 

PREFACE 

* Feeling  the  want  of  recreation  books  for  the  young  the  authoress  has 
entered  the  lists  with  so  many  of  her  country-women  to  endeavour  tozsuply 
the  young  folks  of  the  present  day  with  amusing  and  at  the  same  time  instructif 
tales  and  though  some  may  smile  at  the  idea  of  anything  instructif  being 
contained  in  a novel,  the  authoress  hopes  to  prove  that  it  is  by  no  means 
impossible. 

• M.  E.  P.’ 

Next  follow  verses,  portending  tragedy  to  come,  and  then  the 
story  begins : — 

‘ Beautifully  situated  amoungst  the  wild  mountains  of  Westmoorland 
Braiesford  Hall  raised  its  proud  Wals  to  the  admiring  eye  and  seemed 
contenptiously  to  behold  from  afar  the  little  vilage  of  Braiesford  with  its 
humble  cottages  and  its  pretty  little  country  Church,  its  vilage  green  were 
the  Children  were  wont  to  play  when  school  was  over  and  all  its  rural 
sceenes  as  it  peacefully  lay  in  the  vally  below.  Braiesford  Hall  had  long 
been  in  the  posesion  of  the  de  Brants  the  family  boasted  of  their  ancestry, 
and  could  trace  their  pedigree  back  to  the  time  of  the  quonquest,  and  had 
received  the  grant  of  Braiesford  lands  from  Herrie  the  eight  in  the  year 
1511. 

‘ The  present  Mr.  de  Brant  was  a young  man  who  had  not  yet  attained 
his  thirtieth  year  his  father  had  unfortunately  died  from  a fall  from  his 
hoarse  when  he  was  very  young  and  he  had  thus  become  heir  to  the  Braies- 
ford estate  at  the  early  age  of  ten.  Accustomed  to  have  everything  his 
own  way,  to  be  made  much  of  by  everyone,  with  an  indulgent  mother,  who 
knew  not  how  to  say  No  ! and  with  almost  everything  he  could  wish  for 
at  his  disposal,  the  spoilt  child  grew  up  to  be  a selfish  pasionate  man  who 
could  not  bare  to  be  contradicted  in  the  slightest  thing.  His  mother  died 
shortly  after  he  had  come  of  age,  and  his  two  sisters,  Jane  and  Mageret, 
who  were  some  years  older  than  himself,  prefered  living  in  a small  house 
near  London  than  remaining  at  the  hall,  as  he  proposed  they  should. 

* About  the  time  when  our  story  begins  it  was  rumoured  in  the  vilage 
that  the  Squire  had  a Lady  Love  up  in  the  great  City,  and  it  certainly 
looked  very  like  it  for  he  was  never  to  be  found  at  the  hall,  if  anyone 
inquired  after  him  the  poudered  footman  was  sure  to  answer  with  a 
profound  bow  that  his  Master  was  in  London  and  that  the  last  thing  they 
had  heard  of  him  was  (and  here  Mr.  Jhon  would  give  a captavating  smile) 


PEN-DRIFT 


157 

that  he  was  in  perfect  health.  Many  and  Many  were  the  conjectures 
made  by  the  inquisitive  vilagers,but  they  all  agreed  in  one  point  that  was 
namely  that  Mr.  Jhon  knew  something  about  the  matter,  and  though 
Suzanna  Mairy,  the  prittiest  girl  in  the  vilag?  set  to  work  to  discover  all 
about  it,  she  was  bafled  at  the  first  onset,  foi  alas  her  shining  curls  and 
best  bonnet  seemed  to  have  no  efect  on  the  iron  neart  of  Mr.  Jhon,  for  he 
merely  grined  and  shook  his  curly  whig  and  replied  that  “ his  Master  had 
gone  to  town  on  business  ” so  poor  Suzanna  had  to  give  up  the  case  as 
quite  hopeless,  but  the  curiosity  of  the  vilagers  was  soon  to  be  gratyfied 
for  not  long  after  the  news  reached  Braiesford  that  the  Squire  had  been 
married  in  London  and  that  he  and  his  bride  would  pass  the  night  at  the 
Hall  as  they  proceeded  on  then*  marraige  tour  in  Scotland. 

‘ We  will  not  dwell  upon  the  bustle  of  preparations  that  imidiatly 
took  place  for  the  reception  of  the  bride,  nor  upon  the  expectations  of  the 
old  gossips  as  they  sat  over  their  sociable  cups  of  tea  and  wondered  what 
Madam  would  be  like,  but  will  at  once  pass  to  the  next  day  when,  about 
six  o’clock  in  the  evening,  the  sound  of  hoarse’s  hoofs  were  heard  in  the 
distance  and  in  an  instant  the  road  was  lined  with  the  egar  vilagers  who 
were  anxious  to  catch  a glimpse  of  the  bride  as  the  carraige  drove  rapidly 
along  and  passed  under  the  triumphal  ach  which  had  been  erected  at  the 
entrance  of  the  vilage  the  people  gave  three  loud  cheers.  The  Squire 
kept  bowing  and  smiling  at  the  window  but  not  one  glimpse  of  his  lady 
did  the  disopointed  vilagers  get,  as  she  was  tow  tired  to  do  anything 
but  lay  languidly  back  on  the  cushioned  seat.  As  they  drove  up  the 
broad  carraige  drive  that  led  to  the  Hall  Mr.  de  Brant  bade  his  wife  loot 
at  her  future  home  expressing  a hope  that  she  was  satisfied  with  it  she 
replied  in  the  affirmatif  but  seemed  too  weary  to  pay  much  attention  to 
anything. 

‘ But  it  is  time  that  I should  introduce  you  to  the  newly  married 
couple  it  is  an  old  saying  and  one  that  is  generaly  acted  upon  that  ladies 
ought  to  come  before  Gentlemen,  but  I mean  to  brak  through  every  sense 
of  propriety  and  good  maners  and  begin  with  the  Gentleman  : — * 

Whereupon  the  writer  at  once  proceeds  to  describe  Mervyn 
de  Brant  as  ‘ a tall  substantial-looking  man  ’ who  considered 
himself  ‘ the  most  important  personage  in  the  universe  ’ and 
whose  temper  was  uncertain  as  he  was  ‘ pasionate  beyond 
mesure.’  His  wife  whom  he  had  just  married  at  ‘ St.  George’s, 
Hannover  Square,’  wore  an  enormous  ‘ cheegnon  ’ and  was  ex- 
ceedingly haughty,  principally,  it  seems,  because  her  father  had 
been  killed  at  the  Battle  of  Waterloo.  This  being  so,  apart  from 
the  little  interest  which  she  took  in  the  first  sight  of  her  new 
home,  she  proceeded  to  flout  the  old  servants  who  were  assembled 
to  greet  her  on  her  arrival  and  who,  including  the  ‘ captavating 
Mr.  Jhon,’  took  great  offence  at  the  airs  of  herself  and  her  lady’s 
maid,  by  name  ‘ Mrs.  Struttings.’  Hence  occurred  the  first 
matrimonial  tiff  between  the  newly  married  couple.  The  story 
relates  : — 

‘ Mr.  de  Brant  was  by  no  means  pleased  with  his  wife’s  conduct  towards 
the  servants,  and  therefore  in  the  first  spare  moment  he  reproaved  her 
mildly  for  the  want  of  afferbility  in  her  manner. 

‘ “ Indeed  Mervyn  ” was  the  haughty  rejoinder,  “ I could  not  have 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


158 

believed  it  of  you  the  idea  of  your  expecting  me  to  shake  hands  and  make 
much  of  the  domestics  ! ” 

‘ “ I did  not  mean  to  offend  you,”  retorted  Mr.  De  Brant,  “ but  then  you 
see,  my  dear  Gertrude,  the  servants  here  are  not  like  your  mother’s  and 
are  not  used  to  such  treatment  as  you  gave  them  this  evening  and  I am 
affraid  that  they  will  take  it  ill.” 

‘ “ They  must  learn  to  take  nothing  amiss  that  / choose  to  give  them/’ 
was  the  answer,  accompanied  with  a proud  toss  of  the  head. 

‘ Mr.  de  Brant  took  no  notice  of  this  last  speech  of  Gertrude’s,  but 
merely  said,  as  he  took  up  his  candle  and  prepared  to  leave  the  room, 
“ The  carriage  is  ordered  at  nine  to-morrow  morning  and  we  must  start 
punctually.” 

‘ “ That  is  to  say  if  I choose  to  go  ! ” was  the  reply.  Mr.  de  Brant 
made  no  answer  but  went  out  slaming  the  door  violently  after  him  and 
strode  upstairs  in  no  very  pleasant  frame  of  mind. 

‘ The  next  morning  they  started  for  Scotland,  but  it  is  not  my  intention 
to  follow  them  on  their  plesent  and  amusing  tour  and  as  we  have  the 
privilage  of  skipping  over  a month  or  so  at  our  pleasure  we  will  do  so  on 
the  present  occasion  and  turn  at  once  to  the  time  whene  Mr.  and  Mrs.  de 
Brant  returned  and  took  up  their  stationary  abode  at  the  Hall. 

‘ Things  went  on  pretty  quietly  on  the  whole  with  occasional  little 
outbraks,  Gertrude  going  her  way  and  her  husband  his,  now  and  then 
their  corneing  in  collision  with  each  other,  and  so  the  first  year  of  their 
married  life  passed  tolerably  smoothly. 

‘ The  next  object  of  important  to  which  I shall  call  your  attention  is 
to  the  birth  of  a little  son  which  greatly  delighted  Mr.  de  Brant  and  who 
was  christened ’ 

But  apparently  the  effort  of  finding  a suitable  title  for  that 
son  and  heir  to  the  lands  inherited  from  the  ‘ quonquest  * gave 
pause  to  the  inspiration  of  the  young  writer,  for  the  ‘ stationary  ' 
life  of  the  de  Brants  comes  to  an  abrupt  termination,  and  in  a 
slightly  older  hand-writing  the  authoress  has  added  senten- 
tiously  : — 

* This  novel  begun  at  an  early  age  was  unfortunately  never  terminated  as 
the  author  was  at  that  period  so  fully  occupied  with  poetical  and  dramatic 
compositions,  that  no  time  was  left  for  the  more  humble  prose.' 

Nevertheless,  in  her  school-room  compositions,  the  * humble 
prose  ’ still  survived,  and  caused  some  dismay  to  those  who  had 
to  deal  with  it.  Her  Parisian  daily  governess,  a prim  and  de- 
corous lady,  at  first  used  to  set  her  as  a task  to  be  prepared  out 
of  lesson-hours,  some  original  correspondence  in  French,  and 
rashly  left  the  subject  to  her  pupil’s  own  selection,  ‘ Que  peut 
on  faire  avec  une  telle  enfant  ? ’ she  exclaimed  later  as  she  placed 
in  Mrs.  Pickering’s  hands  the  following  result. 


Monsieur  U Marquis  de  Valise  a Madame  la  Marquise  de 

Valise. 


‘ Paris,  Mars  6me. 


* Ch£re  Epouse, — 

* Je  ne  sais  comment  commen^ea  cette  lettre,  j’ai  tant  de  choses  & 
fce  dire,  et  j’ai  bien  peur  de  te  facher  ; mais  pour  me  donner  la  force  qu’il 


PEN-DRIFT 


159 

me  faut,  je  m’imaginerai  que  tes  jolies  levres  me  sourient  en  disant  44  Con- 
tinue, Continue, — je  te  pardonnerai  tout  ! ” Et  cette  pensee,  chere  epouse, 
m’encourage  a t’avouer  une  petite  maladresse  de  ma  part. 

‘ L’autre  soir  je  suis  aller  chez  Monsieur  le  Dindonbare.  Au  moment 
de  me  retirer  il  me  dit — “ Ou  allez  vous  ? ” Je  lui  repondit  que  j’allais 
rentrer  ^hez  moi.  44  Passez  la  soiree  tout  seul  ? ” me  demanda  il.  “ Oui,” 
dis-je,  44  il  le  faut  bien,  puisque  ma  femme  n’est  pas  avec  moi.”  44  Est 
ce  qu’il  vous  faut  toujours  votre  femme  pour  vous  tenir  compagnie  ? ” 
dit-il,  “ Venez  avec  moi,  mon  cher,  et  je  vous  trouverez  de  bien  meilleur 
compagnie  que  celle  de  Madame  votre  femme  ! ” 

4 “ Monsieur,”  repondis  je,  44  pour  que  me  prenez  vous,  que  vous 
m’irsulte  comme  cela  a mon  nez  ? ” “ Pardon,”  reprit-il,  en  tirant  ses 

moustaches,  et  en  saluant,  “ je  riais,  car  en  verite  je  trouve  Madame  de 
Valdse  la  dame  la  plus  a-greable  du  monde,  et  je  voulais  simplement  vous 
proposer  de  m’acompagner  a la  salle  de  billard  ou  je  vais,  pour  vous  faire 
obher  vos  peines  vous  devez  en  avoir  en  quittant  une  personne  aussi 
aimable  que  votre  femme  Test,  pendant  quelques  heures  a ce  jeux  inno- 
cent.” Je  lui  repondis  que  ce  n’etait  pas  dans  mes  principles  de  frequenter 
les  salles  de  Billard.  “ Oh,  je  comprends,”  dit  il  avec  un  sourire  dedaig- 
neux,  44  quand  on  est  pauvre  il  faut  etre  econome — vous  avez  raison,  mon 
cher  ! ” Maintenant,  je  te  demande,  chere  epouse,  pouvais-je  me  laisser 
insulter  comme  cela — c’etait  risquer  mon  honneur  et  le  sien  de  ne  pas  lui 
montrer  que  je  n’avais  pas  peur  de  perdre  quelque  sous  ! et  en  pensant 
ainsi  je  l’accompagnai  comme  il  l’avait  demande. 

‘ Au  commencement  tout  alia  bien,  et  je  gagnai  a chaque  tour  ; cela 
m’encouragea  a jouer  de  plus  haut  en  plus  haut,  mais  Dame  Fortune, 
toujours  capricieuse,  me  quitta  soudainement  pour  favoriser  mes  adver- 
saires  et  je  perdis  tout  ce  que  j’avais  gagne,  et  encore  bien  davantage. 
J’etais  desole,  mais  on  me  dit  qu’il  fallait  revenir  le  lendemain  pour  regagner 
ce  que  j’avais  perdu.  Je  suivis  leur  avis,  mais  au  lieu  de  gagner,  je  perdis 
comme  auparavant ; on  me  encouragea  toujours  avec  l’esperance  de 
gagner,  en  revenant  de  jour  en  jour,  mais  helas  ! je  perdis  d'enormes 
sommes  d’argent  chaque  soir.  Et  que  suis-je  aujourd’hui  ? un  homme 
ruine  ! oui  ! ruine,  chere  epouse,  car  je  dois  plus  de  cent  mille  francs,  a 
chaque  pas  que  je  fais  je  vois  la  ruine. 

‘ Mes  creanciers,  autrefois  si  obligeants,  sont  a present  insatiables 
pour  leur  argent.  En  effet,  cher  epouse,  je  ne  vois  qu’un  chemin  a prendre, 
et  c’est  celle-ci.  Il  faut  que  tu  renvois  toutes  les  domestiques  du  Chateau, 
Juliette  et  Bernard  excepte.  Il  faut  vendre  tes  chevaux  et  tous  les 
chiens  de  chasse  ; et  puis  j’ai  une  petite  chose  a te  demander,  chere  epouse, 
tu  sais  ton  collier  de  diamands,  et  bien,  ne  voudras  tu  pas  le  vendre  pour 
1’ amour  de  ton  mari  ? c’est  un  sacrifice  j’en  conviens,  mais  du  rests  je  te 
promets  que  si  jamais  je  deviens  riche  je  t’en  donnerai  un  autre.  Mais 
pour  le  present  je  connais  un  bon  Juif  qui  achetera  volontiers  ton  collier, — 
envois  le  lui.  Il  demeure  45  rue  . . . Paris. 

* Et  maintenant,  chere  epouse,  il  faut  que  je  te  dise  adieu.  Ecris 
bientot  et  pardonne  moi  de  ce  que  je  1’ait  fait,  ne  sois  dure  pour  moi,  et 
pense  que  ton  mari  a tout  fait  pour  le  mieux.  Je  t’embrasse  de  tout  mon 
joe  nr  et  ie  suis  toujours  ton  fidele,  mais  malhaureux,  epoux. 

4 Alexis  de  Valise.’ 


Reponsc 

4 Monsieur, — 

4 Je  trouve  que  votre  petite  maladresse  en  est  une  hien  grande.  Et 
je  vous  disai — 44  Monsieur,  que  votre  imagination  vous  a trompe,  car  mes 
iolies  levres  ne  s’ouvriront  que  pour  vous  dire  des  imprecations.  En 


i6o 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


verity,  vous  etes  fou  ; une  dame  de  qualite  sans  domestiques  ! je  croi! 
que  vous  avez  laisse  votre  tete,  comme  votre  argent,  a la  Salle  de  billard 
Ne  comptez  pas  sur  mes  diamants  pour  payer  vos  dettes  car  vous  ne  le* 
aurez  pas,  ni  votre  “ bon  Juif  ” non  plus.  Ne  vous  presentez  pas  devanl 
mes  yeux,  car  je  vous  previens  qu’ils  n’ont  pas  plus  de  pitie  pour  vous  qu€ 
mes  levres. 

* Je  suis  Monsieur,  votre  epouse  furieuse  et  indignee. 

‘ Angelique  de  Valese.’  1 

To  ftie  average  child,  humour  of  a primitive  type  alone  is 
comprehensible  ; its  laughter  is  stirred  by  trifles  which  make  no 
appeal  to  its  elders,  while  it  will  treat  what  to  them  is  ludicrous 
with  a profound  seriousness.  But  the  sense  of  wit  in  a child  is 
rare,  and  is  likely  to  be  fraught  with  inconvenience  to  its  pastors 
and  masters.  Thus  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  matter-of-fact 
English  governess  was  better  pleased  than  her  French  prototype 
when  she,  too,  having  suggested  an  original  composition  in  her 
native  tongue,  her  pupil,  with  assumed  gravity,  presented  her 
with  a Dantesque  description  in  blank  verse  of  ‘ Pluto’s  drear 
domain.  ’ This  gave  an  all-too  graphic  picture  of  a world  shrouded 
in  eternal  fog,  permeated  with  a foetid  odour  and  conspicuous, 
for  snakes  which  writhed,  skeletons  which  groaned,  phantoms 
which  howled  and  wailed,  and  lakes  of  gore  ! 

As  to  the  ' dramatic  and  poetical  compositions  ’ in  which  the 
child  indulged  privately,  their  variety  is  endless,  though  of  these 
the  most  ambitious  are  likewise  the  best,  and  are  too  long  to 
quote.  All,  however,  exhibit  a happy  knack  of  phraseology,  of 
vivid  description,  of  close  observation  and  appreciation  of  beauty 
in  the  world  around.  But  they  reveal,  too,  an  unexpected 
undercurrent  of  sadness  mingled  with  an  attraction  to  the 
gruesome  in  life,  almost  morbid  in  its  intensity. 

Pessimism  is  admittedly  a phase  of  youth  ; there  is  an  age 
at  which  we  all  write  verses  and  hug  discontent.  It  is  as  though 
to  the  young  and  healthy  the  mystery  of  that  darker  side  of  life 
with  which  they  are  still  unacquainted  attracts  with  all  the 
force  of  a fantastic  contrast — there  is  a luxury  in  melancholy  to 
which  they  cling  in  thought.  Still  more  do  all  stirrings  of  genius, 
all  aspiration,  all  ultimate  achievement,  find  their  root  in  this 
acceptance  of  sadness  as  one  of  the  great  adjuncts  of  life.  ‘ Be- 
lieve me,’  said  Colehurst  to  Mary  Crockenden,  ‘ that  all  the 
noblest  thought,  noblest  work,  noblest  friendship  is  rooted  and 
grounded  in  profound  sadness.  Sad — everything’s  sad — fair 
things  and  foul  things  alike.’ 

It  may  be  some  dim  realization  of  this  truth  which  makes  the 
appeal  of  sorrow  to  a mind  that  has  never  tasted  its  actuality ; 
yet  there  are  those  of  us  who  have  suffered  more  keenly  from  the 

1 A few  corrections  to  the  grammar  in  the  above,  apparently  made 
by  the  Governess,  have  been  allowed  to  stand  in  order  that  the  French 
may  be  more  intelligible  to  the  reader  ; otherwise  the  original  is  untouched. 


The  Daughters  of  the  Mist 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  pinxit 

[In  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Spencer  Pickering 


PEN-DRIFT 


161 


visionary  griefs  and  terrors  of  our  early  days  than  is  possible  in 
later  life  when  we  face  reality  with  a sense  of  proportion  and  a 
philosophy  that  childhood  lacked. 

As  will  have  been  gathered,  no  home  could  have  been  more 
free  from  gloom  than  the  sunny  house  in  Upper  Grosvenor  Street, 
and  no  child  less  weighted  with  the  sorrows  of  existence  than  was 
Evelyn  ; yet  with  the  perversity  of  an  imaginative  tempera- 
ment, all  that  was  the  antithesis  to  her  own  lot  appealed  most 
keenly  to  her  in  those  early  years.  Thus  if  she  describes  a scene 
of  lovers  wandering  in  a grove,  of  children  playing  in  the  sun- 
light, of  flowers  blossoming  on  the  bank  of  a silver  stream  in 
spring-time — though  she  does  so  with  a lightness  and  grace 
unusual  in  a child,  she  dwells,  too,  with  insistence  on  the  thought 
of  how  Death  is  hovering  near  to  pounce  on  these  lovely  living 
things  at  their  moment  of  supremest  bliss.  So,  also,  when  she 
turns  to  Nature,  what  attracts  her  is  the  awful  solitude  of  some 
lonely  mountain  peak,  the  mysterious  depths  of  some  eerie 
forest,  the  rattle  of  the  thunder,  the  roar  of  the  tempest  over  a 
rocking  sea,  or  some  dank  ruin,  frightening  in  its  silence,  with  its 
breath  of  present  decay  and  its  whisperings  of  a ghostly  Past. 

9 In  the  pale  moonlight,  cold  and  dim 
Stands  the  lone  ruin,  drear  and  grim  ; 

Lichens  creep  o’er  the  crumbling  walls, 

The  dark  bat  haunts  the  silent  halls  ; 

Death  is  heralded  by  decay 

Through  darkening  night,  and  brightening  day.  . , #* 

There  is  a lilt  in  the  verses  which  runs  through  the  descrip- 
tions of  the  same  scene  under  varying  phases — especially  in  the 
winter : — 


* Then  the  wild  hail-storm  hoarsely  rings 
Death  is  the  doom  of  earthly  things  ! * 

Even  when  a passage  occurs  of  obvious  bathos,  this — like 
the  uncertain  spelling — serves  to  mark  what  we  might  otherwise 
be  in  danger  of  forgetting,  the  extreme  youth  of  the  writer  and 
the  consequent  need  for  leniency  in  criticism.  Most  of  her 
verses,  it  must  be  observed,  were  written  about  the  age  of  nine 
— none  after  the  age  of  thirteen  ; and  they  are  given  here  only 
to  illustrate  the  character-study  of  a child  with  undeveloped 
faculties,  but  teeming  with  imagination  and — so  much  may  be 
conceded — possessed  of  an  unusual  fluency  of  language.  Per- 
haps for  unadulterated  gloom,  the  verses  in  which  she  describes 
the  sensations  of  a murderer  and  of  his  victim  are  the  most 
typical — indeed  various  poems  deal  with  this  topic,  which  was 
evidently  a favourite  one. 


1 


162 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


1 

* A prisoner  lay  in  a gloomy  cell, 

With  the  chains  around  him  clinging 
Watching  the  shadows  that  deep’ning  fell 
And  despair  his  heart  was  wringing. 

2 

* He  knew  the  doom  that  awaited  him  well, 

For  conscience  his  heart  was  stirring. 
Repeating  that  when  on  the  scaffold  he  fell 
’Twould  be  Justice — crimes  avenging. 

3 

* His  guilty  thoughts  cast  a drearful  spell 

O’er  the  dim  light  all  surrounding  ; 

He  fancied  a murdered  form  he  could  tell 
From  the  darkness  slow  emerging. 

4 

* The  shape  which  his  fancy  had  beckon’d  forth 

In  a bloody  pall  was  shrouded, 

From  its  vacant  sockets,  the  flames  of  wrath 
With  revengeful  fury  darted. 

5 

* Its  horrid  features  with  gore  were  streaming. 

And  no  sound  the  enchantment  broke. 

Till  at  last,  its  spectre  frame  erecting. 

With  an  accent  of  rage  it  spoke 

6 

* '*  Hark  ! murderer,  who  mads’t  my  spirit  fly 

Down  a prayerless  path  to  Judgment, 

In  the  place  where  fiery  seas  roll  high 
There’s  an  endless  pit  of  torment. 

7 

* " There  tortures  await  thee  in  angry  shape. 

Which  thy  fetter’d  ghost  shall  endure, 

From  that  region  of  pains  there  is  no  escape, 
Eternity  hath  thee  secure  ! 

8 

9 “ ’Tis  there  in  that  land  of  bitterest  woe 
That  vengeance  shall  fan  my  hot  soul. 

And  the  flaming  billows  that  o’er  thee  fl®w 
Shall  rejoice  me  beyond  control  1 ” 

9 

9 The  fantome  vanished  with  mocking  howl. 

But  the  prisoner  never  moved  ; 

And  the  night  stole  in  with  a darksome  scowl 
Which  the  stillness  vainly  reproved. 


PEN-DRIFT 


163 


10 

•With  the  early  morn  the  grim  geolier  flings 
Wide  open  the  prison’s  drear  door. 

The  sentence  of  death  in  his  hand  he  brings— 

But  the  captif  lies  dead  on  the  dungeon  floor  1 * 

It  must  be  admitted,  so  unpleasant  is  the  disposition  of  the 
ghost  who,  as  it  forcibly  complains,  was  sent — 

* Down  a prayerless  path  to  Judgment  ’ 

that  one’s  sympathies  are  enlisted  on  behalf  of  the  * captif  ’ 
whom  it  maliciously  haunts  and  taunts.  But  in  the  next  ven- 
ture there  is  little  to  choose  between  the  conduct  of  murderer 
and  murdered,  since  their  respective  roles  are  transposed  directly 
one  is  no  longer  in  the  flesh. 


s 

• See  the  ocean,  calmly  sleeping, 

Glitters  ’neath  the  sun’s  hot  ray ; 
Swift  a little  bark  is  sckimming 
On  its  smooth  and  easy  way. 

2 

f All  alone  two  sailors  sitting 

Row  across  the  dreamy  deep  ; 

One  of  treachery  is  thinking, 

And  his  murdrous  vigils  keep. 

3 

' Money  that  the  other’s  bearing 
To  the  not  far-distant  shore 
Tempts  him,  and  the  dagger  plunging 
Bids  his  victim  live  no  more. 

4 

9 List  the  corpse  so  drearly  sinking 
In  the  peaceful  rip’ ling  sea,, 

Calls  for  vengeance,  and  awakening 
Nature  answers  to  the  plea. 

5 

9 Hark  how  wild  the  storm  is  thrilling ! 
Bright  the  lightning  scans  the  sky. 
Dark  the  thunder-clouds  are  rolling, 
Roaring  swells  the  water  high. 

6 

®On  the  billows  roughly  tossing 
At  the  mercy  of  the  storm, 

In  the  fated  boat  hard  rowing 
Sits  the  frighted  murdTer’s  form. 


164 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


7 

* High  before  him,  gloomy  towering 

Stands  the  saving  rocky  shore  ; 

But  to  reach  it,  vainly  struggling, 

Doomed,  he  hears  the  tempest  roar* 

8 

9 See  a spectre  grim  arising 

From  the  white  and  feath’ry  spray. 

With  a bloody  halo  gleaming 
Round  his  gory  locks  astray. 

9 

9 With  revenge  its  eyes  are  glist’ning 
Gazing  on  the  battling  bark  ; 

And  astride  the  waves  it’s  riding 
While  the  scene  grows  still  more  dark. 

10 

* Terror  now  the  murd’rer  seizing 

Makes  him  row  with  all  his  might ; 

But  the  restless  ghost  advancing 
Drags  him  down  to  lasting  night ! * 

Another  poem  describes  the  sensations  of  a criminal  flying 
from  his  own  haunted  imagination  and  how  he  seeks  in  vain  for 
Deace  in  every  possible  locality,  till  finally — 

* He  stands  upon  a rocky  ledge 

A swelling  torrent  rolls  below  ; 

He  leaps  from  off  the  craggy  edge 
And  Death  conceals  his  tale  of  woe  ! * 

The  call  of  the  sea  rings  through  most  of  her  verses ; and 
later  in  life  she  used  to  say  that  no  holiday  inland  was  of  any 
use  to  her,  so  keenly  did  she  hunger  for  the  tonic  to  brain  and 
nerve  which  she  found  in  the  dancing  waves  and  the  brine- 
drenched  air.  The  following  with  its  mingling  of  gory  ghosts  and 
a stormy  ocean  is  also  characteristic. 

1 

* Oh  ! Mother  hark,  how  the  wind  howleth  loud  ; 

See,  swift  o’er  the  sky  flits  the  darken’d  cloud, 

And  the  roar  of  the  waves  so  grand  and  proud 
The  coming  storm  foretells. 

The  sea-gull  stoops  on  her  silvery  wings, 

To  the  watchful  sailors  the  warning  brings. 

The  crested  billows  the  alarum  rings — 

Higher  the  warter  \sic]  swells. 


PEN-DRIFT 


165 


2 

* Oil  1 Mother  hark  to  the  booming  gun, 

Mornful  the  sounds  o’er  the  ocean  come. 

Some  vessel  must  on  the  rocks  have  run ; 

She  calls  for  help  in  vain. 

Her  knell  is  the  thunder’s  distant  roar  ; 

The  signals  are  hushed  for  evermore, 

And  the  surges  break  where  she  lay  before  ; 

A wreck  floats  on  the  main  ! 

3 

‘ Oh  ! Mother  hark  to  the  voice  of  the  storm  ; 

It  conjures  up  many  a shadowy  form 

That  the  living  have  long  since  ceased  to  mourn, 

To  ride  on  the  gloomy  wave. 

And  visions  of  heroes,  grim  and  gory, 

Haunt  the  deep  with  their  woeful  story  ; 

And  the  white  foam  forms  their  crown  of  glory, 

Down  in  their  wartery  grave.’ 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  imaginative  of  these  productions  is 
the  tale  of  a lost  child  whirled  away  by  the  Spirit  of  the  Light- 
ning. No  stress  need  be  laid  upon  the  closeness  with  which  the 
child  who  wrote  it  had  studied  the  moods  of  Nature  to  describe 
them  so  faithfully. 


1 

' See  the  golden  sunset  fading 

Into  ev’ning’s  darksome  shades, 

And  the  night  damps  slowly  creeping 
Through  the  forest’s  hidden  glades. 

2 

* Hark  the  lost  one,  loudly  weeping, 

Calls  in  vain  for  friendly  aid, 

None  to  hear  and,  gently  guiding, 
Homeward  lead  the  drooping  maid. 

3 

‘ Silence  now  o’er  all  is  brooding, 

And  the  pines  wave  drear  on  high, 
Gold-fringed  clouds  are  quickly  flitting 
O’er  the  sullen  threat’ ning  sky. 

4 

* List  how  wild  the  storm  Is  brewing ; 

Hear  the  thunder’s  distant  roar  ; 
Through  the  woody  mazes  wand’ring 
Strays  the  child,  lone,  worn  and  sore. 

5 

* Lo  the  Spirit,  gaily  riding 

On  its  flashing  lightning  steed, 
Stoops,  and  quick  the  girl  uplifting 
Hurries  on  with  mad-like  speed. 


i66 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

6 

* Far  behind  the  woodlands  leaving 

Swift  they  scour  the  Heaven’s  dark  brow® 
Then,  with  sudden  fury  turning, 

On  the  earth  they  lighten  now. 

7 

* In  the  cities  fear  arousing 

As  they  rend  the  gloomy  pall 
Which  the  sleeping,  soft,  is  shrouding. 
Wakening  to  the  tempest’s  call. 

8 

O’er  the  desert  widely  ranging, 

Flashing  on  its  sandy  planes, 

Far  o’er  unknown  wilds  advancing 
Where  drear  desolation  reigns. 

9 

* Hark  the  ocean  billows  raging, 

Shouting  loud  their  triumph  song. 

As  the  wrecks,  sad  witness  bearing 
To  their  vict’ry,  drift  along. 

10 

* On  the  foaming  pathways  glancing 

Urging  on  the  fij’y  (sic)  horse 
See  the  riders  swiftly  flashing 

O’er  the  sailor’s  wave-toss’d  corse. 

11 

* Drear  the  scene — the  tempest  howling 

Greets  the  phantom’s  gladdened  ear— - 
But  the  moments  onward  wearing 
Bid  the  ling’ ring  dawn  appear. 

12 

* See  the  pale  grey  streaks  are  spreading 

Heralding  the  coming  day  ; 

On  their  breath  an  angel  floating 
Clothed  in  glorious  array. 

13 

* Lo,  of  Peace  the  banner  raising, 

Calm,  she  lulls  the  restless  sea ; 

While  the  liurrican  abating 

Fright’ed,  makes  the  Spectre  flee. 

14 

* See  those  cloud-barred  gates  that  opening 

Show  the  awful  sights  within, 

Lakes  of  flame  high  inward  rolling 
Curling  smoke,  and  deaf  ning  din  I 


PEN-DRIFT 


16) 


15 

•Now  the  fork-legged  courser,  starting. 

Panting  snorts  the  murky  air  ; 

Vain  the  Spirit  madly  struggling 
— Both  are  doom’d  to  enter  there. 

16 

•Feel  its  tightened  hold  relaxing 
As  it  drops  the  trembling  child  ; 

See  its  hideous  form  that,  fighting, 

Flounders  in  that  chaos  wild. 

17 

•Now  those  drearsome  portals  closing 
Hide  that  place  of  woe  from  sight, 

Till,  when  next  the  doors  unfolding, 

All  shall  aid  the  whirlwind’s  flight. 

18 

* Angel  forms  are  brightly  beaming 

Thronging  in  the  dewy  morn. 

Floods  of  glory  lightly  blending 
With  the  sober  tints  of  dawn. 

19 

* Light  the  little  maiden  bearing 

Resting  on  their  gorgeous  wings, 

While  the  scented  breeze  that’s  playing 
Echoes  of  sweet  music  brings. 

20 

* See  the  golden  visions  breaking 

On  the  child’s  large,  wond’ring  eyes. 

Shouts  of  joy  that,  never  ceasing, 

Welcome  her  beyond  the  skies  1 * 

Despite  the  halting  metre  and  the  obvious  bathos  of  certain 
lines,  noticeably  where  the  lost  child  is  described  as  r lone,  worn 
and  sore / there  is  a verve  and  swing  about  this  little  poem  which 
holds  the  attention.  One  feels  the  terror  of  the  coming  storm, 
the  lightning  flashing  over  earth  and  sky,  the  muttered  thunder, 
the  bellowing  tempest,  and  then  the  contrast  of  the  peaceful 
dawn,  with  its  tinted  clouds  and  scented  breezes,  heralding  the 
angelic  welcome  to  the  dead  child.  Long  years  afterwards  the 
little  writer  painted  a picture  called  ‘ The  Storm  Spirits  * wherein 
Lightning,  Cloud  and  Flood  are  seen  by  the  gleam  of  a fitful 
moon  riding  over  an  angry  sea  ; and  the  flame-hued  drapery  and 
wild  beauty  of  the  first  Spirit  was  surely  the  outcome  of  those 
childish  dreams. 

With  like  realism,  she  wrote  of  the  days  of  Odin,  so  that  when 
she  depicts  * Valhalla’s  mighty  halls,’  one  can  hear  the  uproar  as 


i68 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

‘ The  gods  and  heroes  hurry  in,  To  quaff  the  sparkling  wine/  and 
the  sudden  lull  when  Odin  bids  the  feast  begin,  and  they  ‘ drink 
his  health  in  dead  men’s  skulls/  There  is,  too,  the  genuine  joy 
of  battle  in  the  following 


1 

* See  the  snow  so  thickly  falling 

Shrouds  the  earth  in  white  array; 
Nature  waits  with  dread  foreboding 
Twilight  of  the  fatal  day. 

2 

* Now  the  sun  in  sinking  glory 

Sheds  arround  its  golden  light ; 

See  advancing,  grim  and  gory, 

Fenris,  eager  for  the  fight. 

3 

* Onward  like  a torrent  rushing 

Springs  the  monster  at  its  prey. 
And  the  flaming  orb  devouring 
Thus  begins  the  deadly  fray. 

4 

* Next,  the  moon  in  silv’ry  splendour 

Falls  a victime  to  the  foe. 

All  the  starry  heights  surrender 
To  destruction’s  gloom  below. 

5 

* Hark  the  tottr’ing  mountains  tumble, 

Low’ring  darkness  veils  the  earth  ; 
Rocks  from  their  foundations  crumble. 
Wild  confusion  now  takes  birth. 

6 

* Now  the  foaming  ocean  rolling, 

Breaks  with  fury  past  the  shore. 
O’er  the  land  unbounded  rushing 
Thund’ring  with  a deafening  roar. 

7 

* See  the  gates  of  Heaven  are  op’ning 

Satur  comes  in  fire  arrayed, 

Now  the  Bridge  of  Bifrost 1 crossing 
Quick  the  battle  ranks  are  made. 

8 

* Hark  ! the  Serpent,  loudly  hissing, 

Coils  his  giant  form  in  vain, 

Fate’s  decree  that,  fiercely  bruising, 
Thor  shall  perish  on  the  plain. 


1 The  bridge  which  spans  heaven  and  earth.  In  Scandinavian 
Mythology,  the  rainbow  is  this  bridge,  and  its  colours  are  attributed  to 
the  precious  stones  which  bestrew  it. 


169 


PEN-DRIFT 

9 

* Lo  I the  trumpet  deeply  sounding, 

Heimdal  rushes  to  the  strife, 

See  Igrasil’s  1 boughs  are  trembling, 

Woe  betiding  Odin’s  life. 

10 

* See  the  streams  of  blood  are  welling, 

Odin  now  his  death  hath  found, 

Wide  the  caves  of  Hell  are  gaping, 

Chaos  reigns  on  all  arround  l 

11 

* Wild  the  roaring  flames  ascending, 

Loud  the  triumph  song  of  Death 
Air  and  ocean  all-consuming 

With  its  heated,  flaming  breath  1 ’ 

‘ The  Sprite  of  the  Bog  * is  another  poem  which  shows  the 
same  love  of  phantoms,  of  tempest  and  of  ultimate  disaster; 
while  for  unadulterated  gloom,  the  1 Tragedy  of  Virginia,’  a 
long  play  written  at  the  age  of  ten  as  a birthday  present  to  the 
dramatist’s  mother,  and  bound  in  lively  blue  ribbon,  surpasses 
the  rest  in  blood-curdling  language  and  dramatic  situations. 
More  placid  in  tone,  though  full  of  melancholy,  is  the  following  : — 

To  the  Swallow. 

* Oh  ! bird  ever  journeying 
Far  on  the  wing, 

To  thee  doth  thy  wandering 
Happiness  bring  ? 

Oh  ! tell  me,  in  crossing 
The  mighty  ocean, 

Do  the  billows  rolling 
In  ceaseless  motion, 

Of  joy  to  thee  whispering 
Urge  on  thy  flight  ? 

Or  dost  thou  go  sorrowing 
Through  darksome  night  ? 

O’er  thy  path  no  hope  shedding 
Its  brightening  ray, 

Thy  drear  fate  bemoaning, 

And  cheerless  thy  way ; 

No  soft  voice  repeating. 

In  joyful  strain, 

Of  the  longed-for  ending 
Of  all  thy  pain  ; 


1 Or  Ygsdrasil,  the  great  ash-tree,  which,  in  Scandinavian  Mythology, 
binds  together  heaven  and  earth  and  hell.  Its  branches  extend  over  the 
whole  earth,  its  top  reaches  heaven,  and  its  roots  hell.  The  three  Fates 
sit  under  the  boughs  spinning  the  events  of  Man’s  life. 


170 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


No  star  on  thee  shining 
With  friendly  light, 

Thy  flight  enlivening 
Ghttering  bright  ? 

Doth  the  storm  in  brooding 
Over  the  sea, 

And  the  waters  swelling 
Scowl  darkly  on  thee  ? 

Oh  ! rather  believing 
Thy  silvery  wings 
Onward  thee  bearing 
To  ever-bright  things, 

N’er  knew  the  sad  meaning 
Of  Earth’s  fading  scenes, 

Leave  me  fancying  still, 

In  fantastic  dreams, 

That  thy  white  wings  are  gleaming 
A shimmering  streak, 

Like  a beacon  from  Heaven 
Where  Earth  is  so  bleak  ! * 

Perhaps  of  all  the  childish  poems,  the  following,  in  its  quietude 
and  simplicity,  is  the  most  attractive  : — 

1 

* My  love  lies  deep. 

Under  the  ground. 

And  Autumn’s  gloom 
Is  gath’ring  round. 

2 

* The  ouled  1 flaps 

Her  dusky  wings ; 

Shadows  of  night 

The  north  wind  brings. 

3 

* The  place  is  cold. 

And  dead  leaves  He 
Sadly  courting 
The  wintry  sky. 

4 

* My  love  was  fair, 

Her  eyes  shone  bright. 

They  lit  my  soul 
Like  stars  the  night. 

5 

‘ Hew  locks  of  hair 

Were  bright  as  gold, 

And  her  lips  breathed 
Deep  joys  untold  ; 


1 Owlet. 


PEN-DRIFT 

6 

• And  o’er  my  soul 

Her  presence  beamed. 
And  like  the  sun 

Life-giving  gleamed. 

7 

• Come  mourn  with  me 

For  I am  sad, 

For  she  is  gone 

That  made  me  glad. 

8 

‘Wild  let  me  weep 
The  hours  away, 

Drear  is  the  night 
And  drear  the  day. 

9 

• My  heart  is  broke. 

My  hope  is  fled, 

For  lies  my  love 
Among  the  dead. 

10 

• My  love  lies  deep 

Under  the  ground ; 
The  winter  winds 
Blow  cold  arround. 

n 

9 The  cypress  tree 

Is  crowned  with  snow. 
Shrouded  in  white 
The  graves  lie  low. 

12 

*The  snow  is  soft 
And  very  white  ; 

Chill  blows  the  blast 
At  dead  of  night. 

13 

c I will  lay  me  down 
On  the  cold  ground. 
Falling  snow-flakes 
Gather  arround.  . . « 

14 

• Through  the  wan  sky 

A radiance  bright 
Gleams  o’er  the  hills  $ 

A path  of  light  l 


172 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


15 

( And  a spirit  fair. 

Noiseless  descending. 
Love,  life  and  peace 
Is  gently  blending. 

16 

‘ Oh  Love  in  Glory 
With  crowned  brow 
I feel  thine  arms 
Arrcmnd  me  now — 

17 

* Soft  thy  kisses 

Warm  thy  breath 
Vision  of  Love — 

Angel  of  Death  ! * 


And  again,  many  years  afterwards,  the  little  writer  painted 
a picture  which  seemed  to  be  the  outcome  of  her  childish  visions. 
It  is  entitled  ‘ The  Angel  of  Death/  and  its  haunting  charm  can 
be  conveyed  by  no  colourless  reproduction. 

In  a lovely  land  a girl  is  seen  seated  upon  a rock.  Her  robe 
is  of  pink  ; her  slim  figure  is  outlined  against  an  expanse  of  golden 
sunset  sky.  Only  in  the  distance  a sinister  note  is  struck  in 
that  gracious  landscape  where,  afar,  beasts  of  prey  are  seen 
prowling  among  the  bones  of  the  dead. 

And  beside  the  girl  stands  the  Form  of  Death  himself,  one 
finger  already  outstretched  to  still  the  throbbing  of  her  slender 
throat.  At  his  touch  she  is  drooping  like  a withered  flower ; 
her  face  is  waxing  pale,  her  eyes  are  closed,  the  blight  of  a great 
weariness  is  upon  her  . . . and  far  off  the  beasts  and  the  birds 
of  prey  are  waiting. 

Yet  this  Death  which  is  stifling  her  young  breath  is  no  King 
of  Terrors.  From  his  enshrouding  draperies  of  wonderful  blue 
his  face  looks  out  passionless  and  calm  with  a beauty  which  is 
unearthly  ; his  gaze  is  bent  upon  the  dying  girl  with  a tenderness 
which  is  infinite.  Relentless  it  may  be ; stern  of  set  purpose 
as  befits  the  instrument  of  an  immovable  Fate  ; but  in  its  serene 
grace  is  a tranquillity  which  is  holy ; for  this  Angel  of  Death  is 
the  Angel  of  Eternal  Peace. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


THE  THORNY  WAY 

FROM  the  days  when  Evelyn  stole  water  out  of  the  gutters 
in  order  to  paint,  this  occupation  became  more  and  more 
of  an  obsession,  and  still  more  was  it  looked  at  askance  by  her 
elders.  The  fact  that  she  began  to  neglect  other  branches  of 
her  education  for  the  study  of  drawing,  and  that  soon,  with  the 
exception  of  music,  everything  which  tore  her  away  from  her 
pencil  or  her  brush  was  resented  by  her,  was  noted  and  lamented. 
While  still  quite  a child,  so  great  became  her  absorption  in  what 
was  looked  upon  as  a passing  mania,  that  it  was  feared  her 
health  would  suffer ; and  at  length,  as  in  nursery  days,  the 
mandate  went  forth  that  she  was  not  to  paint,  while  her  drawing- 
master  was  secretly  given  instructions  to  tell  her  that  she  had 
no  artistic  talent,  and  would  be  well  advised  to  turn  her  energies 
in  another  direction. 

In  acting  thus,  her  parents  were  influenced  by  dual  motives 
— first,  the  belief  that  her  devotion  to  Art  was  not  serious ; 
secondly,  the  fear  that  it  might  become  so. 

To  comprehend  their  attitude,  it  is  necessary  to  reconstruct 
the  Victorian  outlook,  already  referred  to.  In  a certain  section 
of  Society  at  this  date  Art  was  viewed  with  patronizing  favour 
— but  it  was  essential  that  it  should  be  Art  kept  within  proper 
bounds.  As  a toy  of  the  dilettante,  or  an  accomplishment  of 
the  well-educated,  it  was  obviously  praiseworthy,  being  an 
intellectual  pursuit ; as  a serious  profession  it  was  another 
matter.  Once  upon  a time  Grub  Street  had  fawned  upon 
Mayfair,  and  depended  for  the  very  staff  of  life  on  the  success 
of  its  fawning.  The  legend  still  lingered  and  extended  to  other 
products  of  the  intellect  besides  literature.  There  was  a sus- 
picion— though  not  formulated  in  actual  words — that  painting 
as  a profession  savoured  of  a connexion  with  trade — of  work 
which  could  be  bought  and  sold ; moreover,  it  was  linked  with 
a Bohemianism  which  could  not  be  tolerated  in  good  Society. 
Artists  were  people  who  wore  long  hair  and  impossible  clothes, 
and  who  affected  to  admire  much  that  sensible  people  saw  to  be 
absurd.  The  Old  Masters  were  in  a different  category  principally 

173 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


174 

because  they  were  old.  They  represented  the  accepted  opinion 
of  generations,  and  to  admire  their  works  must  therefore  be 
evidence  of  a cultivated  mind.  Moreover,  the  men  who  had 
painted  those  chefs-d’oeuvre  were  dead  and  had  become  part  of 
History.  It  did  not  matter  now  what  had  been  their  social 
status  or  their  idiosyncrasies  when  alive. 

Baldly  expressed,  this  was  the  attitude  of  many  Philistines 
of  that  day ; and  even  among  those  who  despised  the  inherent 
snobbishness  of  such  views,  it  was  a force  to  be  reckoned  with. 
Evelyn’s  uncle,  Roddam  Spencer-Stanhope,  had  furnished  a 
case  in  point.  It  mattered  nothing  that  his  pictures  were  like 
exquisite  Fairy  Tales,  that  the  colour  glowed  from  his  canvas 
in  radiant  loveliness.  His  choice  of  a profession  was  considered 
eccentric  by  the  members  of  his  own  family — one  to  be  toler- 
ated, not  approved.  Reading  the  correspondence  of  the  period 
one  sees  that  the  front  of  his  offence  was  an  impression  that  it 
had  landed  him  with  unconventional  acquaintance  who  held  odd 
views  about  the  observance  of  Sunday ; and  it  was  remarked 
as  at  least  a matter  for  congratulation  that  he  personally  re- 
mained well-groomed  and  in  all  externals  4 a gentleman.’  Never- 
theless, he  was  referred  to  as  ‘ poor  Roddy,’  and  his  highest 
flights  of  fancy  evoked  a smile.  His  mother — although  a clever, 
intellectual  woman — made  no  happier  comment  on  his  choice  of 
a life-work  than  was  summed  up  in  her  fervent  exclamation — 
‘ Thank  God  ! it  is  at  least  harmless  ! ' For  the  god  of  the 
Victorians,  despite  certain  contradictions  in  Biblical  history, 
was  essentially  well-bred. 

Admittedly,  these  were  the  traditions  of  a certain  section 
only  of  the  community,  but  it  was,  unfortunately,  the  section 
to  which  Evelyn  belonged.  Twenty  years  earlier,  William  De 
Morgan  had  discovered  that  ‘ Art,  however  high  on  the  slopes 
of  Parnassus,’  was  considered  ‘ socially  low  ’ ; and  that  ‘ the 
Elite  . . . might  be  amateurs,  but  not  professionals.’  The 
passing  of  years  had  done  little  to  modify  this  opinion  ; and  the 
view  that  ‘ Art  was  altogether  unsuited  for  the  son  of  a Gentle- 
man ’ then  complained  of  by  him,  was,  in  the  present  instance, 
accentuated  when  the  daughter  of  a Gentleman  wished  to  adopt 
it  professionally. 

The  attitude  of  Evelyn’s  mother  in  regard  to  the  situation 
which  thus  arose  was,  she  admitted,  that  of  the  proverbial 
hen  who  discovers  she  has  hatched  a duckling.  ‘ I want  a 
daughter — not  an  artist  ! ’ she  complained.  Not  unnaturally 
she  wanted  a girl  to  be  a companion  and  a pride  to  her,  one  who 
would  fulfil  the  accepted  role  of  the  young  woman  of  her  day. 
Well-educated,  well-read  and  well-bred,  she  would,  in  due  course, 
‘ come  out  ’ in  the  usual  fashion  ; she  would  take  part  in  inno- 
cent pleasures  in  really  good  society ; eventually  she  would 


THE  THORNY  WAY 


175 

marry  satisfactorily  to  become  a model  wife  and  mother,  and 
finally  go  down  to  the  grave  beloved,  revered — and  quickly  for- 
gotten. This  was  the  destiny  mapped  out  for  Evelyn  ; and  it 
was  difficult  for  her  elders  to  grasp  the  type  of  mind  which  might 
regard  such  a fate  as  it  appeared  to  the  fiery  Bashkirtseff,  * Se 
marier  et  avoir  des  enfants — chaque  blanchisseuse  pent  faire 
autant ! 1 

So  Evelyn,  scenting  antagonism  in  the  very  air  she  breathed, 
outwardly  acquiesced  in  the  verdict  of  prohibition,  while  in- 
wardly resolved  to  defy  it.  She  had  by  this  date  been  promoted 
from  the  nursery  to  a room  of  her  own — a small  apartment  on 
the  floor  occupied  by  her  father  and  mother.  This  close  vicinity 
to  her  parents  was  unfortunate  in  that  the  smell  of  paint  was 
apt  to  penetrate  through  any  existing  crevices,  but  she  at  once 
proceeded  to  paste  up  the  chinks  of  the  doorways  with  putty 
and  brown  paper.  Subsequently,  she  spent  many  hours  in  soli- 
tude there  ostensibly  studying- — with  the  key  turned  in  the  lock. 
All  evidence  of  paint  or  canvas  was  concealed.  At  other  times, 
if  she  could  escape  from  the  nurses  or  governesses,  she  took 
refuge  in  Grosvenor  Square,  whither  she  carried  a bag,  pre- 
sumably to  hold  her  books.  This  bag,  which  also  accompanied 
her  whenever  she  went  away  from  London,  had  been  ingeni- 
ously contrived  by  her  with  a false  bottom,  and  in  this  false 
bottom  were  hidden  all  the  materials  requisite  for  drawing. 

So  she  worked  and  studied ; and  before  the  age  of  twelve 
she  was  painting  in  oils.  But  the  results  of  her  labour  wrere 
more  difficult  to  hide  than  the  materials  with  which  she  did  it, 
and  in  consequence  she  utilized  every  surface  which  presented 
itself  as  available  for  her  purpose.  She  had  little  pocket  money, 
so  she  secreted  blocks  of  wood  to  draw  upon,  or  used  the  insides 
of  box-lids,  since  it  was  unlikely  that  anyone  would  search  these 
for  drawings.  As  a further  precaution,  when  working,  she 
always  had  a piece  of  drapery  ready  to  fling  over  the  parapher- 
nalia which  might  otherwise  have  revealed  her  occupation. 

At  length  one  day  the  inevitable  happened.  In  her  eager- 
ness to  get  to  work  she  forgot  to  lock  the  door,  and  her  mother 
entered  before  she  had  time  to  conceal  what  she  was  doing. 
The  girl  burst  into  excited  tears,  and  declared  she  had  been 
forced  into  deception  because  she  could  not  live  without  painting. 
After  that  a virtue  was  made  of  necessity,  and  opposition  was 
grudgingly  withdrawn.  If  paint  she  must,  it  was  better  to  paint 
well  than  badly ; so  a first-class  drawing  master  was  again 
engaged  who,  for  a guinea  an  hour,  condescended  to  instruct  her 
in  copying  fruit  and  flowers.  Evelyn  promptly  explained  to 
him  that  what  she  wanted  was  to  learn  the  anatomy  of  human 
beings,  not  of  plants ; but  he  turned  a deaf  ear  to  all  her  repre- 
sentations, and  assured  her  that  the  subjects  he  selected  were  a 


176  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

more  suitable  study  for  a young  lady.  She  thereupon,  eager  to 
convince  him  that  she  was  in  earnest,  purchased  a jointed  wooden 
model,  and  from  it  drew  a careful  study  of  the  male  nude  which, 
on  his  next  visit,  she  firmly  submitted  for  his  approval.  The 
irate  master,  scandalized  at  what  he  considered  a most  unlady- 
like proceeding,  threw  up  his  post,  and  Evelyn  vented  her  satis- 
faction by  drawing  an  excellent  portrait  of  him  with  his  head 
bristling  with  goose-quills. 

An  incident  occurred  about  this  date  which  illustrates  how 
she  regarded  everything  solely  in  its  relation  to  Art.  One  day 
her  mother  received  some  tickets  for  a French  play  from  a well- 
meaning  friend,  and  Evelyn  being  a remarkably  good  linguist, 
it  was  felt  that  the  opportunity  for  her  to  follow  the  dialogue 
in  a foreign  tongue  should  not  be  missed.  Unfortunately  the 
play  proved  to  be  ‘ French  ’ in  plot  as  well  as  language  ; and, 
as  the  risque  story  unfolded,  Mrs.  Pickering  watched  her  daughter 
in  some  anxiety.  For  the  latter  sat  apparently  absorbed  in  the 
acting,  her  eyes  glued  to  the  stage,  her  face  glowing  with  excite- 
ment. At  length,  when  the  curtain  had  fallen  on  the  noxious 
performance,  Mrs.  Pickering,  anxious  to  discover  how  much  of 
its  purport  the  girl  had  grasped,  asked  tentatively  how  she  had 
enjoyed  it. 

‘ Oh,  enormously  ! ’ was  the  heartfelt  answer. 

‘ Could  you  follow  what  the  actors  were  saying  ? ' pursued  her 
mother  in  some  dismay. 

‘ Oh,  I never  bothered  about  that ! ’ was  the  naive  reply ; 
‘ Just  think  of  their  beautiful  attitudes  and  draperies  ! ’ 

There  is  a little  journal  kept  by  Evelyn  at  the  age  of  sixteen 
which  throws  light  on  her  life  at  that  date  and  how  she  was 
obsessed  by  the  feeling  that  every  moment  wrested  from  the 
great  aim  of  her  existence  was  an  irrevocable  loss.  Written  in 
August,  which  was  nominally  holiday  time,  she  was  then  more 
free  to  follow  her  own  bent.  She  rose  early,  and  from  seven 
onwards  painted  or  drew  till  the  family  breakfast  at  nine 
o’clock.  (‘  Breakfast , as  usual,  lasted  a century ! ’ is  one  dis- 
consolate entry.)  As  soon  as  she  could  escape,  she  went  off  to 
Grosvenor  Square,  where  she  worked  for  three  hours  in  the 
morning,  and  sometimes,  if  she  was  fortunate  in  getting  away, 
for  four  hours  in  the  afternoon.  In  the  evening,  after  dinner, 
she  modelled,  and  all  other  available  moments  were  filled  up 
with  reading.  Yet  the  record  of  each  day  is  a perpetual  lamen- 
tation at  the  loss  of  time  entailed  by  the  petty  routine  of  daily 
life,  when,  to  her  young  enthusiasm,  each  hour  was  a treasure 
of  which  account  must  be  rendered  to  the  great  god  of  Destiny. 
She  chafed  at  the  interminable  family  meals,  the  interruption 
of  visitors,  the  evenings  when  guests  to  dinner  prevented  the 
daily  modelling.  Life,  work  and  art  were  beckoning—' * and,’ 


SCULPTURE 

The  Mater  Dolorosa 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  fecit 
Exhibited  in  the  Grosvenor  Gallery  in  1884. 

“A  piece  of  sculpture  . . . remarkable  for  the  uncommon  beauty  of  its  type  and 
reticent  character  of  its  fine  pathos.” — The  Studio. 

[In  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Stirling. 


THE  THORNY  WAY 


177 

sfte  writes,  * I have  to  sit  in  the  drawing-room  and  listen  to 
idiots  talking  about  dressmakers  and  servants  ! This  enforced 
idleness  is  insupportable.’  Still  more,  her  conscience  was  per- 
petually goading  her  with  an  imaginary  laziness.  ‘ Wasted  a 
great  deal  of  time/  she  says  self-accusingly  on  August  15, 
[872,  after  five  hours’  steady  work  ; and  the  next  day  she  com- 
plains again  : ‘ This  is  the  third  day  when  I have  had  only  half 

a.  day’s  work.’  On  the  17th,  after  describing  eight  hours’  work, 
she  notes  a heinous  offence : ‘ At  five,  went  out  to  tea.  Changed 
my  dress  before  going,  which  was  unnecessary  and  wasted  time.’ 
The  following  day  she  writes  : — 

‘ Saturday,  1 %th. 

‘ Half-past  seven  before  I got  to  work.  Worked  for  only  an  hour 
before  breakfast.  Worked  three  hours  and  a half  in  Grosvenor  Square  ; 
after  luncheon  worked  again  an  hour  indifferently  ; was  lazy  and  brought 
the  work  home  pretending  to  myself  I could  not  do  more  to  it  till  it  wTa? 
dry  which  was  merely  a busy  shape  of  idleness.  Drew  at  home  for  a e 
hour.  Went  to  Madame  Coulon’s  [the  music  mistress]  and  walked  dowr 
Regent’s  Street,  for  what  motive  I cannot  tell  except  wasting  time.  1 
hate  Saturday  ! another  week  gone  and  I have  done  nothing,  have  worked 
even  less  than  usual.’ 

Her  description  of  Sunday,  a day  of  enforced  boredom,  if 
not  more  happy  : — 

‘ Got  up  late  ; dawdled  over  dressing,  went  to  Church  ; in  the  afternooF 
walked.  Dawdled,  dawdled,  dawdled  through  a great  deal  of  precious 
time.’ 

On  her  seventeenth  birthday  she  wrote  :< — 

* At  work  a little  after  7 ; after  breakfast  worked  again  till  12  when 
we  started  on  an  expedition.  It  rained  hard  and  was  very  dismal.  Got 
back  late  ...  17  to-day,  that  is  to  say  17  years  wasted  ; three  parts  at 
least  wasted  in  eating,  dawdling  and  flittering  [frittering]  time  away.  I 
dread  getting  older,  at  the  beginning  of  each  year  I say  “ I will  do  some- 
thing ” and  at  the  end  I have  done  nothing.  Art  is  eternal,  but  life  is 
short,  and  each  minute  idly  spent  will  rise,  swelled  to  whole  months  and 
years,  and  hound  me  in  my  grave.  This  year  every  imaginable  obstacle 
has  been  put  in  my  way,  but  slowly  and  tediously  I am  mastering  them  all. 
Now  I must  do  something — I will  work  till  I do  something. 

‘ Lost  during  the  year  4 months  through  illness,  5 through  being 
prevented  in  every  possible  way,  1 in  flittering  time  away,  add  about  2 
only  in  genuine  work  and  that  frequently  diminished  by  inapplication  ! — 
I will  make  up  for  it  now,  I have  not  a moment  to  lose.’ 

At  length  leave  was  reluctantly  given  for  her  to  attend  the 
Slade  Schools,  where  women  had  only  recently  been  admitted, 
and  she  prepared  to  throw  herself  heart  and  soul  into  this  new 
adventure.  One  thing  she  determined — if  the  future  held  any 
success  for  her  this  should  be  achieved  on  the  merits  of  her  work 
alone.  She  would  start  at  the  lowest  rung  of  the  ladder,  she 

M 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


178 

would  dress  shabbily,  and  slave  like  any  poor  student  whos* 
bread  depended  on  her  labour,  and  the  petty  conventions  which 
had  hitherto  hedged  her  about  and  hampered  her  should  be 
for  ever  ignored. 

The  first  check  which  her  ardour  received  was  the  discovery 
that  she  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  walk  alone  either  to  or  from 
Gower  Street.  It  was  unheard  of,  she  was  told,  that  a girl  & 
her  age  and  class  should  go  about  utterly  unprotected.  To  au 
embryo  Art-student  this  savoured  too  much  of  the  young- 
ladyism  from  which  she  was  determined  to  escape ; but  she 
still  had  to  learn  that  convention  was  a myth  which  died  hard. 
‘ It  is  not  done  ’ was,  in  her  day,  a verdict  from  which  there 
was  no  appeal. 

Trivial  as  was  the  point  at  issue,  perhaps  nothing  serves 
to  mark  more  completely  the  gulf  which  exists  between  past  and 
present  than  the  liberty  which  the  girl  of  to-day  enjoys  when 
compared  with  that  permitted  to  her  predecessor  in  a former 
generation.  It  is  only  necessary  to  glance  at  the  pages  of  Punch 
— that  invaluable  record  of  passing  phases  and  follies — to  re- 
create the  social  atmosphere  of  that  time.  For  those  were  days 
when  the  single  went  nowhere  unchaperoned  by  the  married  ; 
when  only  a fast  girl  went  alone  in  a hansom,  or,  worse  still, 
drove  in  a hansom  with  the  doors  unclosed  ; and  when  the  jest 
never  palled  of  the  incredible  woman  who  wished  to  have  a 
latch-key. 

It  must  be  borne  in  mind,  moreover,  that,  only  twenty  years 
earlier,  elderly  spinsters  without  any  adult  male  protector  saw 
no  absurdity  in  the  fact  that  they  had  to  keep  some  small  page- 
boy to  attend  their  walks  abroad  through  quiet,  respectable 
regions.  No  matter  how  minute  and  youthful  this  male  escort 
might  be,  his  guardianship  was  necessary  to  placate  the  pro- 
prieties. Nor  could  matrons  be  too  venturesome.  Mrs.  Picker- 
ing used  to  relate  how,  as  a woman  of  forty,  tempted  by  the  belief 
that  she  should  meet  her  husband  immediately,  she  had  once 
rashly  walked  a few  yards  down  Upper  Grosvenor  Street  with- 
out a footman,  and,  in  consequence — even  in  that  irreproach- 
able locality— had  been  promptly  accosted  by  a gay  rake  who 
had  perforce  misunderstood  her  unprotected  condition.  Thus, 
in  the  seventies,  it  still  scarcely  provoked  a smile,  that  a friend 
of  hers,  who  was  a septuagenarian  and  a great-aunt,  never,  for 
fear  of  being  deemed  unlady-like,  ventured  anywhere  unattended 
by  her  old  coachman — indeed  the  latter  in  slippery  weather 
during  the  winter  might  be  seen  solemnly  preceding  his  mistress 
to  church,  strewing  sand  upon  the  pavement  upon  which  she 
was  about  to  tread.  1 It  is  not  done  ’ still  defined  the  correcti- 
tudes ; and  if  you  were  indiscreet  enough  to  defy  what  was 
‘ not  done/  you  must  be  prepared  to  pay  the  penalty  ! 


THE  THORNY  WAY  179 

So  Evelyn,  to  her  indignation,  was  sent  off  to  her  classes  in 
a carriage  and  pair.  But  she  soon  stopped  the  carriage  and 
walked  the  rest  of  the  way  on  foot.  Next,  a maid  was  engaged 
to  accompany  her — a woman  of  matronly  proportions  whose 
whole  appearance  exhaled  respectability,  and  who  received  orders 
never  to  lose  sight  of  her  charge.  The  latter  surveyed  the  portly 
frame  of  her  proposed  escort  with  secret  satisfaction — a woman 
with  that  figure  could  be  easily  out-distanced  ! 

Forthwith  it  was  a usual  sight  to  see  Evelyn,  her  long  hair 
flying  in  the  wind,  racing  excitedly  to  her  work,  while  far  away, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  the  stout  maid  Burges  ^ toiled 
breathlessly  in  a vain  endeavour  to  keep  her  in  vie\t  Twc 
orders  Evelyn  promptly  gave  her  so-called  attendant — one  was 
that  the  maid  was  never  to  be  seen  on  the  same  side  of  the  street 
as  herself ; the  other  was  that,  when  calling  to  fetch  her  after 
the  classes  were  over,  the  woman  was  to  wait  at  some  entrance 
indicated.  Needless  to  say,  the  unfortunate  Burgess  often 
stayed  wearily  at  the  trysting-place  only  to  discover  that  her 
charge  had  long  since  left  the  building  by  another  doorway,  and 
had  thus  successfully  eluded  the  humiliation  of  being  seen 
accompanied  by  a maid. 

The  story  still  lingers  in  the  memory  of  Evelyn’s  fellow- 
students  how,  in  her  hurry  to  get  to  her  work,  she  made  her 
first  appearance  at  the  classes  without  a hat,  blissfully  uncon- 
scious that  she  had  lost  it  en  route.  Daily  she  was  in  a fever  to 
arrive  the  instant  the  doors  were  opened,  and  to  make  the  very 
utmost  of  the  opportunity  which  had  been  grudgingly  granted 
to  her.  ‘ I can  always  picture  her,’  relates  one  of  her  fellow 
students,  ‘ a slender,  picturesque  girl,  with  finely  chiselled  fea- 
tures and  very  lovely  hair,  dressed  in  some  bright  material  and 
absorbed  in  her  work.  From  the  first  she  produced  beautiful 
colours  on  her  canvas,  but  if  she  attempted  to  match  a ribbon 
for  a dress,  it  was  curious  that  she  always  bought  the  wrong 
shade  and  seemed  unable  to  see  this.  She  was  full  of  mischief, 
told  a story  delightfully,  and  her  laughter  was  irresistible ; but 
where  her  painting  was  concerned  she  was  all  eagerness,  serious- 
ness and  absorption.’  Another  friend  of  many  years  writes  : 

‘ Dear  Evelyn  ! I wish  I could  say  something  that  would  evoke 
her  charming  image  ! She  was  such  a gifted  being  with  such  a spiritual 
imagination.  Yet  all  her  great  gifts  and  all  her  learning,  all  her  profound 
thoughts  and  all  her  hard  work,  left  her  plenty  of  time  for  high  spirits  and 
fun  ! I think  that  of  all  the  girls  we  knew  she  was  the  merriest  : I can 
see  and  hear  her  laugh  now  as  I think  of  her.  She  was  a delightful  being  ! 
so  quick  of  sympathy,  so  warm-hearted,  so  kind  ! ’ 

Among  her  contemporaries  at  this  date  under  the  tuition  of 
the  future  President  of  the  Royal  Academy,  Sir  Edward  Poynter, 
were  many  whose  names  afterwards  became  prominent  in 


i8o 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


literature  and  art.  John  Collier  and  his  future  wife  Mary 
Huxley  were  her  fellow  students  ; Philip  Norman ; Mary  Kingsley 
(Lucas  Malet) ; ‘ Dolly  ’ Tennant,  afterwards  Lady  Stanley ; 
and,  by  a strange  coincidence,  her  friend  Mary  Stuart  Wortley, 
who  afterwards  became  the  wife  of  Ralph,  2nd  Earl  of  Lovelace, 
De  Morgan’s  friend  from  the  days  of  babyhood.  Meanwhile 
imagination  is  also  arrested  by  the  thought  that  in  this,  Evelyn’s 
first  venture  towards  freedom,  all  unconscious  of  what  the  years 
held  in  store,  she  daily  passed  the  house  where  her  future  hus- 
band had  come  into  being ; further,  that  she  was  working  at  a 
branch  of  the  University  where  he,  too,  had  dreamed  his  first 
dreams  of  struggle  and  achievement,  and  to  the  formation  and 
promotion  of  which  his  father  had  devoted  a lifetime. 

To  her  disappointment,  however,  she  soon  discovered  that 
little  was  to  be  learnt  at  the  Slade  Schools  which  she  had  not 
studied  already.  Her  talent  met  with  prompt  recognition.  ‘ She 
was  considered  the  most  brilliant  pupil  of  her  day,’  states  a 
contemporary.  In  1873-4  she  gained  the  first  prize  for  painting 
from  the  Antique ; and  the  next  year,  1874-5,  she  gained  the 
first  prize  for  painting  from  the  Life ; that  same  year  she  like- 
wise won  the  Slade  Scholarship. 

A story  runs  that,  as  she  was  leaving  the  building  after  the 
decision  respecting  this  latter  had  been  made  known,  a group 
of  men-students  were  examining  the  list  of  competitors  which 
had  been  posted  near  the  entrance.  All  the  names  upon  it  were 
those  of  men  with  the  exception  of  her  own,  ambiguous  as  to 

sex,  which  headed  the  list.  ‘ Do  you  know  this  d d fellow — 

this  Evelyn  Pickering  ? Who  is  he  ? ’ she  heard  them  saying 
angrily  as  she  passed  unnoticed  through  their  midst — devoured 
by  her  anxiety  to  dodge  the  maid  who  was  lying  in  wait  for 
her. 

Rut  Evelyn  soon  realized  that  it  would  be  a waste  of  time 
to  continue  attending  classes  where  she  could  make  little  further 
progress  ; and  she  longed  to  work  on  independent  lines.  So 
she  threw  up  the  Scholarship  ; and  about  this  date  one  last 
effort  was  made  by  her  parents  to  direct  her  in  the  way  she 
should  go. 

Her  mother,  who  was  then  ill  and  having  a course  of  baths 
in  Germany,  wrote  that,  as  she  was  unable  to  officiate  herself, 
she  had  arranged  for  her  daughter  to  be  presented  by  a relation 
the  following  spring.  'I’ll  go  to  the  Drawing  Room  if  you  like,’ 
Evelyn  wrote  in  reply  ; ‘ but  if  I go,  I’ll  kick  the  Queen  ! ’ Per- 
haps it  should  be  mentioned  that  this  represented  no  personal 
animosity  on  her  part  to  Queen  Victoria,  it  was  merely  a protest 
against  folly  in  the  abstract.  Nevertheless,  it  was  felt  that  she 
might  be  capable  of  carrying  out  her  threat,  and  the  project  was 
allowed  to  drop,  though  in  the  eyes  of  her  family  not  to  be  pre- 


THE  THORNY  WAY 


182 


sented  was  almost  equivalent  to  what  the  omission  of  baptism 
would  appear  in  the  eyes  of  a good  churchman.  It  was,  how- 
ever, further  suggested  to  Evelyn  that  she  might  like  to  gc 
into  Society  and  see  a little  of  the  world,  but  she  jumped  to  a 
conclusion  respecting  this  process  which  was  certainly  unjusti- 
fiable in  her  case.  ‘ No  one  shall  drag  me  out  with  a haltei 
round  my  neck  to  sell  me!’  was  her  uncompromising  rejoinder. 

Meanwhile  she  continued  her  work  despite  all  obstacles. 
She  had  no  studio,  nor  even  a room  with  a light  suitable  for  paint- 
ing. The  difficulty  of  introducing  models  into  the  house  under 
such  conditions  was  great ; and  she  had  little  pocket  money  with 
which  to  pay  them.  As  a result,  pretty  Jane,  or  any  members 
of  the  household  who  could  be  bullied  or  cajoled  into  sitting  for 
her  were  made  use  of,  and  as  soon  as  the  present  writer  had 
reached  an  age  at  which  this  was  practicable,  she,  too,  was 
pressed  into  the  service.  In  this  connexion,  a personal  remini- 
scence may  not  be  too  much  in  the  nature  of  a digression. 

Being  but  a small  child,  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I could 
be  persuaded  to  sit  still  in  some  uncomfortable  attitude  for  what 
seemed  to  me  a space  of  interminable  torment.  But  only  one 
bribe  had  influence  with  me.  If  my  sister  would  tell  me  a etory, 
I could  forget  for  a time  the  pain  of  remaining  motionless  till 
this  degenerated  into  physical  torture.  As  already  indicated, 
Evelyn  was  gifted  with  an  imagination  both  vivid  and  gruesome. 
* She  delighted  in  making  our  flesh  creep  ! * complained  a com- 
panion of  those  early  days ; and  the  eerie  tales  which  poured 
from  her  lips  made  such  an  impression  on  my  childish  fancy 
that  often,  after  hearing  one  of  them,  for  many  nights  I would 
wake  screaming  with  terror,  though  resolute  in  my  determina- 
tion not  to  reveal  the  origin  of  the  nightmare  which  obsessed 
me,  lest  in  so  doing  I should  deprive  myself  of  any  future  repe- 
tition of  the  horrible  pleasure  which  her  stories  gave  me. 

Of  these  tales  I can  still  recall  two.  The  first  was  as  follows  : — 

A traveller  journeying  on  foot  through  a strange  country  lost 
his  way,  and,  overtaken  by  darkness,  wandered  on  and  on  along 
an  interminable  road,  till  he  was  ready  to  succumb  with  ex- 
haustion. The  land  through  which  he  passed  was  indescribably 
solitary,  no  living  creature  came  in  sight,  no  human  habitation 
appeared  at  which  he  could  ask  for  shelter  or  for  food ; and  the 
dim  moonlight  which,  by  and  by,  filtered  from  a stormy  sky, 
revealed  only  the  pale  outline  of  the  bare  roadway  stretching 
monotonously  before  him,  bordered  by  dark  forests  and  giant 
crags.  The  stillness  oppressed  him,  and  despair  weighted  his 
tired  limbs  till,  verging  on  a state  of  collapse,  he  suddenly,  to 
his  delight,  heard  the  sound  of  some  vehicle  approaching  along 
the  road  behind  him.  Turning,  by  the  aid  of  the  moonlight  he 
perceived  a coach  looming  into  sight,  on  the  box  of  which, 


102 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

silhouetted  darkly  against  the  pale  horizon,  were  the  forms  of 
a driver  and  a footman. 

The  cumbersome  vehicle  lumbered  heavily  along  till  it  reached 
the  spot  where  he  stood,  when,  in  response  to  his  gesticulations, 
it  drew  up  ; the  footman  got  down  stiffly  from  the  box,  and  in 
silence  held  the  door  open  for  him  to  enter.  Thankfully,  the 
exhausted  traveller  clambered  in,  and  as  he  groped  his  way  to 
a seat,  the  door  closed  behind  him  noiselessly,  and  the  coach 
rumbled  on. 

He  now  discovered  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  several 
other  passengers  who  sat  rigidly  upright  in  their  respective  seats 
and  eyed  him  curiously,  with  piercing  gaze.  Loquacious  in  his 
gratitude,  he  addressed  himself  to  the  one  opposite  to  him,  and 
uttered  effusive  thanks  for  the  courtesy  which  was  being  shown 
to  him  ; but  the  man,  who  appeared  to  be  clad  in  some  heavy, 
old-fashioned  overcoat,  spoke  never  a word  in  reply,  merely 
rolled  his  eyes,  the  balls  of  which  glittered  strangely  in  the 
moonlight.  Surprised  at  such  taciturnity,  the  traveller  then 
addressed  himself  to  the  next  passenger,  but  with  the  same 
result— the  rigid  figure  made  no  response,  only  rolled  its  eyes  in 
like  manner,  gazing  at  him  fixedly.  With  a growing  sense  of 
discomfort,  he  turned  and  addressed  some  commonplace  to 
another  of  his  unsociable  companions  ; but  again  he  met  with 
the  same  treatment.  As  the  coach  lumbered  on,  all  the  passen- 
gers sat  motionless,  each  in  his  respective  seat ; all  maintained 
unbroken  silence  ; all  eyed  him  with  a gaze  which  seemed  to 
pierce  the  gloom  with  sinister  intent.  And  a growing  fear  crept 
over  him,  for  the  silence  was  as  the  silence  of  the  grave ; and 
the  coach  was  like  a hearse  going  to  the  churchyard  ; it  smelt 
dank  with  the  odour  of  Death  itself ; and  its  occupants,  with 
their  rigid  forms  and  glittering  eyes,  were  like  no  living  men  . . . 

And  suddenly  there  flashed  across  his  unhappy  remembrance 
a legend  which  he  had  heard,  how,  a hundred  years  before,  a 
coach  travelling  along  this  same  solitary  road  had,  in  the  dark- 
ness, driven  over  a precipice  so  that  all  its  occupants  had  per- 
ished ; and  how,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  disaster,  it  was 
whispered  that  a phantom  coach,  filled  with  the  dead,  re-enacted 
the  tragedy  which  had  then  befallen.  And  woe  betide  the 
foolhardy  man  who  unwittingly  entered  that  fated  vehicle,  for 
he  would  share  the  doom  of  its  once-living  occupants.  . . . 

Then  the  traveller  rose  with  a terrified  cry  and  strove  to  open 
the  door,  but  it  would  not  yield  to  his  efforts.  He  shouted  for 
help  but  none  answered  ; and,  even  as  he  tried  to  wrench  asunder 
the  rusty  lock,  already  he  saw  before  him  in  the  moonlight  the 
precipice  at  a bend  of  the  road  towards  which  the  fated  coach 
was  inevitably  approaching.  Next  the  moon  went  behind  a 
cloud,  and  as  darkness  fell,  struggling  more  madly,  he  felt  the 


THE  THORNY  WAY 


183 

coach  first  tilt  . . . then  up-end  so  that  the  dead  men  fell  for- 
ward smothering  him.  . . . For  one  moment  it  hung  suspended 
above  the  abyss,  then,  with  its  freight  of  mouldering  dead  and 
shrieking  living,  it  crashed  downwards  to  its  doom  I 

Here,  it  will  be  seen,  were  excellent  ingredients  for  a night- 
mare ; but  it  is  impossible  to  convey  in  print  how  the  story 
gained  in  the  telling  from  the  dramatic  eloquence  of  the  narrator. 
Night  after  night,  an  unhappy  child,  in  my  dreams  I found 
myself  seated  in  that  phantom  coach  with  the  terribly  rigid 
occupants  rolling  their  white  eyeballs.  Then,  with  a sense  of 
suffocation,  I was  struggling  frantically  to  open  a door  that  was 
firmly  closed  ; and  next  would  come  the  culminating  horror  of 
that  crash  down  the  abyss  from  which  I awoke  screaming  for 
help,  or  shivering  in  speechless  fright. 

The  other  story  was  even  more  blood-curdling,  yet  the  details 
are  not  so  vivid  in  my  recollection. 

I recall  that  it  told  how,  in  a lonely  house  there  lived  a lonely 
child,  whose  life  was  a sad  one.  The  only  people  she  ever  saw 
besides  the  few  tradespeople  who  brought  food  to  the  house, 
were  her  father — a stern  man,  whom  she  feared  ; a nurse,  who 
was  even  a greater  terror  to  her ; and  her  mother,  who,  she  was 
told,  was  an  incurable  invalid ; moreover,  for  hours  together, 
and  always  at  night,  she  was  locked  into  her  nursery.  But  once 
every  evening  the  stern  nurse  came  to  fetch  her,  and  she  was 
taken  to  a distant  room  in  the  great  house  to  say  good  night  to 
the  mother  with  whom  she  was  never  allowed  to  be  alone.  ‘ You 
must  not  stay  long  to  tire  your  poor  Mamma  ! ’ the  nurse  told 
her.  ‘ Just  kiss  her,  and  curtsy  and  say  Good  night.’  The 
mother  sat  always  in  a great  chair  with  its  back  to  the  light,  a 
still  figure  half  shrouded  in  a mantilla,  whose  pale  face  she  could 
see  but  dimly,  and  whose  hand,  when  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
felt  flabby  and  chill.  At  each  visit  the  mother  spoke  little,  save 
to  ask  the  child  if  she  had  been  good  and  obedient ; and  on 
receiving  an  answer  in  the  affirmative,  she  expressed  herself 
pleased  in  a strange,  deep  voice. 

So  the  lonely  years  passed,  till  one  night  it  befell  that  there 
was  a fearful  thunderstorm.  The  child  in  her  nursery  by  her- 
self crouched  beneath  the  bed-clothes  trembling  with  fright  as 
the  hail  rattled  against  the  window-panes  and  the  lightning 
glittered  through  the  room.  At  length  came  a louder  clap  than 
before,  accompanied  by  a yet  brighter  flash,  and  springing  from 
her  bed  in  terror,  she  involuntarily  fled  to  the  door  crying  for 
help. 

And  lo  ! to  her  astonishment  she  found  that,  possibly  ren- 
dered forgetful  by  the  storm,  the  nurse  had  not  turned  the  key 
in  the  lock  as  usual ; it  yielded  to  her  efforts,  and,  frantic  with 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


184 

fear,  she  sped  away  down  the  passage,  not  knowing  what  she 
was  about  to  do,  but  bent  only  on  escaping  from  that  lonely, 
tempest-haunted  room. 

Soon  she  saw  a door  whence  a light  gleamed ; and  running 
towards  it,  she  next  paused  abruptly  and  crouched  in  the  shadow, 
for  she  heard  within  her  father  and  the  nurse  were  talking. 

‘ Do  you  think  that  she  suspects  ? ' she  heard  her  father  ask ; 
and  the  nurse  answered  in  sinister  tones — ‘ She  is  growing  older  ! ' 
Then  the  father  thought  for  a space,  and  said  slowly — ‘ We  must 
do  to  her  as  was  done  to  her  mother  ! ’ and  the  nurse  laughed 
in  a fashion  which  made  the  blood  run  cold  in  the  veins  of  the 
listening  child.  Fearing  she  scarcely  knew  what,  yet  more 
terrified  than  she  had  ever  been  at  the  storm,  she  fled  away 
along  the  dark  corridor,  the  desperate  determination  growing  in 
her  heart  to  seek  the  protection  of  that  mother  of  whom  she 
knew  so  little,  and  to  learn  from  the  invalid’s  own  lips  what  was 
this  mystery  which  seemed  to  enfold  them  both. 

Swiftly  she  traversed  the  long  passages  and  silent  rooms,  the 
lightning  playing  upon  the  walls,  till  at  length  she  reached  the 
well-known  door  to  which  she  had  so  often  been  brought.  She 
knocked  timidly,  but  received  no  answer ; so,  hesitatingly,  she 
entered.  Again  the  lightning  flashed,  and  she  saw  that  her 
invalid  mother  was  not — as  might  have  been  expected — in  bed. 
She  sat,  a still  figure,  in  the  same  chair  in  which  the  child  had 
always  seen  her,  the  dark  mantilla,  as  usual,  half  shrouding  her 
pallid  face  and  motionless  form. 

Nervously  the  child  called  to  her,  but  received  no  answer ; 
and  with  a nameless  suspicion  waxing  in  her  mind,  the  unbidden 
visitor  groped  her  way  across  the  room.  For  a space  all  was 
still ; next  came  a louder  crash  of  thunder,  and  the  girl,  terror- 
stricken,  involuntarily  reached  out  her  hand  for  protection  and 
clutched  the  arm  of  the  apathetic  figure  by  whose  side  she  now 
stood.  Then  . . . slowly  . . . she  felt  the  figure  heave  for- 
ward. It  toppled  over — sliding  with  a dull  thud  on  to  the  floor  ; 
and,  as  the  lightning  came  again,  she  gazed  in  horror  upon  the 
huddled  form  at  her  feet,  from  the  limp  head  of  which  the  man- 
tilla had  fallen  back,  revealing  an  ashen,  lifeless  face.  Her 
mother  was  dead — and  stuffed  ! 

The  mystery  was  solved.  Her  father  and  the  nurse  had 
murdered  the  mother,  and,  for  fear  of  the  tradespeople  who 
visited  the  house,  had  had  her  stuffed,  and  kept  up  the  fiction 
that  she  still  lived,  an  incurable  invalid.  The  nurse  was  a ven- 
triloquist, hence  the  imaginary  conversations  which  had  appar- 
ently proceeded  from  the  dead  woman  ! ! 

As  to  what  followed,  I have  no  recollection  ; always  my 
memory  stays  at  that  grim  moment  when  the  stuffed  mother 
fell  limply  to  the  floor,  and  the  petrified  child  stood  alone  in  the 


THE  THORNY  WAY  185 

silent  room  listening  in  terror  lest  she  should  hear  the  approaching 
footsteps  of  her  would-be  murderers  ! 

Thus,  with  her  attention  centred  on  her  painting,  Evelyn 
could  give  rein  to  a power  of  invention  wholly  detached  from 
the  subject  at  which  she  was  working.  While  she  told  these 
stories,  filling  me  with  a horror  which  has  survived  for  a life- 
time, lovely  things  were  flowing  from  her  brush,  and  her  brain 
was  grappling  with  problems  of  technique  or  busy  with  the 
portrayal  of  ideals.  Her  work  soon  attracted  public  attention 
from  its  richness  of  colouring,  its  fine  brushwork,  and  the  power 
which,  in  spite  of  immaturity,  it  displayed.  The  critics  united 
in  praise  of  it ; and  no  sooner  were  her  pictures  seen  than  they 
were  sold.  This  latter  fact  opened  out  a vista  of  new  possibili- 
ties to  her,  for  money  meant  freedom,  and  freedom  meant  greater 
power  to  work.  She  slaved  with  tireless  energy  till,  with  in- 
creasing success,  she  determined  to  go  out  to  study  in  Rome. 

The  suggestion  naturally  met  with  opposition.  In  days  when 
to  walk  to  Gower  Street  unprotected  was  viewed  askance,  for 
a handsome  girl,  not  yet  twenty,  to  travel  out  to  Italy  alone 
and  friendless  was  not  likely  to  meet  with  encouragement. 
Wherefore  more  lay  in  her  decision  than  at  first  appears.  For  it 
represented  a yet  more  crucial  severance  from  the  old  traditions  ; 
and  she  was  aware  what  her  choice  entailed.  On  the  one  hand 
there  still  lay  open  to  her  the  usual  life  of  a girl  of  her  age — a 
life  of  ease  and  amusement,  to  be  enjoyed  with  the  warm  approval 
of  her  elders.  On  the  other  she  could  only  see  a vista  of  hard- 
ship, of  actual  poverty — since  under  the  circumstances  no  funds 
would  be  provided  for  her  maintenance — and  the  sense  that  she 
was  looked  upon  by  her  relations  much  in  the  light  of  a pariah. 
To  strong  natures,  opposition  is  bracing ; the  mere  fact  of 
having  to  do  battle  strengthens  endeavour  ; yet  to  Evelyn, 
though  it  did  not  shake  her  determination,  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  lack  of  sympathy  hurt  like  a wound. 

Nevertheless,  to  Rome  she  went  with  no  funds  save  the  pre- 
carious means  she  could  earn,  and  a dress  allowance  kept  pur- 
posely scanty.  Alone  in  lodgings  she  studied,  or  paced  the 
ancient  city  lost  in  dreams  of  an  impersonal  Past  and  a personal 
Future.  She  dwelt,  absorbed,  on  the  glories  of  the  Renaissance  ; 
she  drank  in  the  poetry,  the  pageantry,  the  haunting  antiquity 
of  her  surroundings.  The  beauty  of  Italy  satisfied  her  soul- 
hunger  ; the  love  of  it  was  to  leave  her  only  with  life  itself. 

To  this  period  of  her  career  must  be  assigned  various  pictures 
of  which  it  is  not  possible  here  to  give  any  detailed  description, 
but  in  which  the  classical  severity  of  her  earlier  manner  first 
blended  with  the  mellow  beauty  of  Italian  Art.  About  this  date 
she  also  modelled  a fine  head  of  Medusa  which  she  had  cast  in 


186 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


bronze  in  Rome,  but  which  she  did  Aot  exhibit  till  1882,  at  the 
Grosvenor  Gallery.  It  is  a work  of  great  power,  which  it  is 
difficult  to  conceive  was  executed  by  so  young  a girl.  * It  is  as 
largely  handled  as  it  is  strong  and  noble  in  conception,'  pro- 
nounced The  Studio.  The  massive  head  is  majestic  in  its  pose  ; 
its  gaze  is  full  of  a brooding  melancholy.  The  snaky  locks 
entwined  above  its  brow  are  full  of  a nauseating  lissomness, 
while  to  add  to  the  realism,  one  reptile  has  become  detached  and 
lies,  apparently  writhing,  at  the  base  of  the  neck.  The  whole 
conveys  a sense  of  evil,  of  strength,  of  relentless  force — yet 
mingled  with  a tragedy  so  profound  that  it  provokes  a horror 
which  is  akin  to  pity. 

Meanwhile  Evelyn  lived  poorly  and  worked  hard.  Friends 
arose  whose  friendship  was  to  be  lifelong ; and  who,  by  and  by, 
when  she  lay  stricken  with  Roman  fever,  tended  her  with  care. 
For  a time  she  battled  for  life  ; and  although  she  at  last  re- 
covered, she  remained  weak  and  subject  to  recurring  fits  of 
malaria,  in  connexion  with  which,  either  at  this  or  a later  date, 
one  of  her  friends,  Miss  Mabel  Robinson,  relates  as  follows  : — 

' One  March  day  my  sister  and  I chanced  to  meet  Evelyn  in 
the  Boboli  Gardens.  We  were  about  to  spend  a few  days  at 
Assisi,  and  when  we  told  her,  she  said  how  she  envied  us.  The 
natural  rejoinder  was  “ Come  with  us  ! " and  she  came  ; and  we 
had  the  happiest,  j oiliest  time  together. 

‘ At  Perugia,  however,  the  first  hotel  we  went  to  looked  such 
a cut-throat  place  that  we  were  all  afraid.  We  did  not  want  to 
stay,  yet  could  think  of  no  excuse  for  immediate  departure.  In 
this  dilemma,  Evelyn  at  once  rose  to  the  occasion.  She  sent 
for  the  padrone , and  asked  solemnly  if  there  was  a chambermaid 
in  the  place  who  could  dress  her  hair  in  the  morning  ? Of  course 
there  was  not ; and  Evelyn  thereupon,  with  becoming  dignity, 
announced  her  regret  at  not  being  able  to  face  such  an  insuper- 
able difficulty ; after  which  we  hurried  off,  without  let  or  hin- 
drance, and  shaking  inwardly  with  laughter,  to  a safe,  proper 
hotel  “ under  English  Management." 

‘ The  next  day  we  drove  from  Perugia  to  Assisi,  and  our 
entry  there  at  sunset,  with  the  Angelas  ringing  and  the  air 
fragrant  with  incense,  is  among  the  most  beautiful  memories  of 
my  life.  But  it  cost  Evelyn  a relapse  into  the  malaria  which 
had  tormented  her  all  the  winter,  and  she  was  so  ill  that  we  sent 
for  the  local  doctor,  whose  official  position  was  Doctor  to  the 
Railway  between  Assisi  and  Empoli. 

‘ When  he  came,  he  proved  to  be  an  old,  old  gentleman,  with 
white  hair  falling  on  to  his  shoulders,  a peasant's  cape,  and  a 
long  staff.  He  gave  her  quinine,  of  course,  but  further  recom- 
mended a local  treatment  of  cabbage  nets  wrung  out  of  boiling 
water  to  be  laid  over  the  feet  and  ankles,  she  meanwhile  being 


Bronze  Bust  of  Medusa 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  fecit 
Height  31  inches 


[In  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Stirling. 


THE  THORNY  WAY 


187 

snug  in  bed.  So  soon  as  the  nets  cooled,  they  were  to  be  replaced 
by  others — " Seven,  or  else  nine  times/’  he  pronounced  impres- 
sively ; “ Odd  numbers,  remember.  One  must  never  have 

recourse  to  even  numbers  or  it  has  no  effect ! ” How  Evelyn 
laughed  ! but  she  was  well  the  next  day  and  able  to  enjoy  to 
the  full  the  beauty  of  Assisi.  After  that  trip  we  were  always 
friends.’ 

Soon  after  Evelyn’s  return  from  her  first  visit  to  Italy  her 
family  moved  from  the  house  in  Upper  Grosvenor  Street  in 
which  they  had  lived  for  so  many  years,  to  a large  corner  house 
in  Bryanston  Square,  No.  48.  About  eighteen  months  later  her 
father  died  suddenly  from  a heart  attack  ; and  subsequently  her 
mother  during  a great  part  of  each  year  lived  in  Yorkshire  near 
her  old  home.  For  a time  Evelyn  used  the  large  ball-room  in 
the  deserted  London  house  for  her  painting ; but  ere  long  she 
left  home  finally,  to  live  in  rooms  adjacent  to  a studio  and  devote 
herself  more  completely  to  her  work. 

At  this  juncture,  in  May,  1877,  what  was  regarded  as  an 
epoch-making  event  in  certain  artistic  circles  occurred  in  the 
opening  of  the  Grosvenor  Gallery.  In  order  to  understand  the 
need  which  this  annual  Exhibition  was  designed  to  supply,  it 
is  necessary  to  revert  to  the  conditions  then  prevailing  in  the 
world  of  Art. 

Thirty  years  previously,  in  1848,  the  association  of  three  lads 
— Holman  Hunt,  aged  twenty-one,  Rossetti  twenty,  and  Millais 
nineteen — had  resulted  in  an  unprecedented  and  far-reaching 
movement.  These  young  artists,  strongly  influenced  by  the 
originality  and  thought  of  Ford  Madox-Brown,  broke  away  from 
the  stereotyped  ideas  which  had  previously  prevailed,  and  in- 
augurated a crusade  to  infuse  new  life  and  fight  into  the  hide- 
bound conventions  of  their  day. 

Imbued  with  the  grace  and  charm  of  the  early  Italian  and 
Flemish  masters,  they  recognized  the  profound  and  loving  care 
with  which  even  the  primitive  among  those  painters  had  bestowed 
upon  their  Art,  and  how,  while  striving  after  a high  ideal,  they 
adhered  to  a loyal  presentment  of  fact.  The  beauty  and  the 
sincerity,  the  fantasy  and  yet  the  faithfulness  of  those  long-dead 
workers  sank  deep  into  the  hearts  of  the  young  crusaders,  and 
fired  them  with  the  spirit  of  emulation.  Space  will  not  here 
permit  any  adequate  analysis  of  their  dreams,  nor  of  the  motives 
which  conduced  to  the  nomenclature  which  they  adopted  when 
electing  to  call  themselves  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood.  It 
suffices  that  the  root  and  aim  of  their  endeavour  was  a great 
sincerity,  and  to  do  the  very  utmost  which  was  in  them.  To 
sum  up  their  creed  in  their  own  boyish  language,  they  determined 
to  paint  the  best  possible  pictures  in  the  best  possible  way  ; and 
although,  obviously,  opinions  might  differ  as  to  the  meaning  of 


i88 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


the  word  ' best/  their  purpose  was  far  removed  from  that  of  the 
decadents,  whose  aim  has  since  been  to  paint  the  worst  possible 
pictures  in  the  worst  possible  way,  and  thus  to  achieve  a cheap 
notoriety  by  startling  humanity. 

As  to  the  need  for  some  drastic  upheaval  in  accepted  conven- 
tions at  this  particular  epoch,  the  student  alike  of  Art  and  History 
may  recognize  its  urgency.  It  is  true  that  the  long-dead  are  apt 
to  become  deified  in  the  thoughts  of  a remote  posterity ; equally 
true  is  it  that  the  tendency  of  every  age  is  to  despise  the  genera- 
tion which  directly  preceded  it  and  to  view  a divergence  from 
the  conclusions  of  its  immediate  forefathers  as  a sign  of  progress 
and  development.  None  the  less,  at  the  date  when  the  young 
Pre-Raphaelites  disturbed  the  self-complacency  of  their  con- 
temporaries, Art  had  undoubtedly  sunk  to  a level  of  banality 
which  needed  some  powerful  incentive  to  instil  into  it  fresh  life. 
The  belief  prevailed  that  it  could  only  be  learnt  by  rote  and  that 
accepted  methods  should  not  be  departed  from,  while  indepen- 
dence of  thought  was  throughout  hampered  by  an  artificiality 
which  was  death  to  inspiration. 

Like  all  the  exponents  of  a novel  creed  the  crusaders  were 
first  hailed  as  prophets,  then  pilloried  by  a fickle  public. 
Directly  it  was  recognized  that  these  men,  impudent  by  reason 
of  their  very  youth,  were  bent  on  breaking  away  from  accepted 
standards,  that  they  dared  to  think  and  act  in  defiance  of  estab- 
lished rules,  public  and  press  alike  united  to  decry  them.  Only 
the  championship  of  Ruskin  later  stemmed  the  torrent  of 
contumely. 

As  the  years  passed,  however,  the  somewhat  awkward  term 
which  they  had  coined  to  express  a mere  youthful  camaraderie 
and  unanimity  of  aim,  gradually  acquired  a second  meaning 
apart  from  that  originally  intended  by  them.  ‘ The  public/ 
relates  Percy  Bate,  ‘ who  came  to  associate  the  term  with  the 
later  work  of  Rossetti  applied  it  to  his  pictures  and  to  those  of 
Burne-Jones,  ignoring  the  earlier  meaning  of  the  word,  and 
using  it  to  denote  the  eclectic  and  poetic  school  of  which  these 
painters  were  the  founders,  and  of  which  their  work  is  the  highest 
achievement.  With  this  double  sense  this  word  exists,  and  with 
this  twofold  meaning  it  may  be  accepted,  inasmuch  as  the  later 
tradition  was  derived  from  the  more  mature  development  in  the 
style  of  these  two  artists  who  were  originally  Pre-Raphaelites 
in  the  strictest  sense/ 

In  accordance  with  this  interpretation,  therefore,  Evelyn  was 
classified  as  one  of  a sect  who  sought  ‘ to  express  the  qualities  of 
truth  and  directness,  of  honesty  and  definite  inspiration  which 
they  discerned  in  the  work  of  the  early  Italian  Masters ' — a 
School  the  aim  of  which  can  be  summed  up  adequately  in  that 
word  ‘ sincerity/  With  all  the  poetry  and  the  imagery  of  a high 


THE  THORNY  WAY  189 

endeavour  its  exponents  believed  in  a faithful  adherence  to  accur- 
acy of  fact  and  detail,  in  an  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains. 
As  there  is  said  to  be  no  royal  road  to  learning,  so,  to  them, 
there  were  no  claptrap  methods  of  achieving  a cheap  notoriety. 
Each  gave  of  the  utmost  which  was  in  him — the  aspiration  of 
his  spirit,  the  labour  of  his  hands — to  the  ideal  to  which  he  was 
dedicated.  There  is  an  allegory  that  aptly  illustrates  the  atti- 
tude of  those  ardent  young  spirits  who  inaugurated  this  new 
movement  and  their  disciples.  A young  painter  continued  year 
after  year  creating  pictures  with  a wonderful  red  glow  which 
none  could  rival,  and  the  world  marvelled  at  his  secret.  But 
still  his  pictures  grew  more  beautiful,  his  colours  glowed  with 
more  radiant  hues,  while  he  himself  waxed  more  white  and  frail. 
At  length  one  day,  before  a masterpiece,  he  lay  white  and  silent 
for  ever,  for  the  blight  of  Death  had  stilled  the  active  hand  and 
the  exquisite  brain.  And  the  world  continued  marvelling — 
1 Where  did  he  find  his  colour  from  ? ' — but  none  recognized  that 
he  had  painted  with  his  life-blood. 

Sfc  * * * $ 

And  all  this  discussion  about  the  new  School  of  Art — new  and 
yet  so  old — had  been  seething  in  the  world  for  thirty  years  while 
the  Academy  had  shown  little  encouragement  to  a movement, 
some  of  the  leaders  of  which,  and  their  followers,  determined  to 
ignore  the  Academy.  Thus  it  was  that  certain  prominent 
painters  of  the  age  remained  voluntarily  and  resolutely  outside 
the  walls  of  an  Institution  which  they  held  was  not  representa- 
tive of  the  Zeitgeist,  and  the  decisions  of  which,  they  affirmed, 
did  not  show  that  fine  impartiality  to  which  it  should  have  been 
pledged.  It  was  under  these  conditions  that  Sir  Coutts  Lindsey 
determined  to  start  a Gallery  on  more  liberal  lines,  one  which 
should  not  be  hampered  by  worn-out  traditions,  but  should  give 
scope  to  original  merit  of  conception  and  execution,  and  to  the 
untrammelled  expression  of  individual  aims.  Moreover,  to  this 
Gallery  artists  were  to  send  by  invitation  only,  which  at  once 
avoided  certain  obvious  evils  attendant  upon  selection  by  a 
Committee,  and  put  each  exhibitor  on  his  mettle  to  give  of  his 
very  best. 

This  new  experiment  in  the  World  of  Art  was  awaited  with 
great  interest.  But  while  all  viewed  it  with  roused  curiosity, 
some  looked  forward  to  it  with  enthusiastic  expectations  and 
some  were  prepared  to  mock  at  the  vagaries  of  the  new  Sect  for 
whose  exploitation  it  was  presumably  designed,  and  who,  since 
all  great  movements  have  their  attendant  freaks,  were  satirized 
in  the  person  of — 

‘ A Greenery-yallery,  Grosvenor-Gallery 
Foot-in-the-grave  young  man.’ 


190 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


Evelyn,  then  aged  twenty-one,  was  invited  to  contribute  to 
the  first  Exhibition,  and  to  it  she  sent  a picture  of  Ariadne  in 
Naxos , a work  which,  despite  its  immaturity,  is  remarkable  in 
its  power  of  suggestion  and  supreme  grace.  Ariadne  is  depicted 
as  having  sunk  upon  the  seashore  with  bowed  head  and  droop- 
ing figure,  while  one  hand  resting  upon  the  sand  supports  her, 
the  other  lies  listlessly  in  her  lap.  Her  back  is  turned  to  the 
ocean,  which  her  gaze  must  first  have  swept  with  despairing 
anguish  for  any  trace  of  her  beloved ; and  against  the  waste  of 
lonely  water  and  solitary  shore,  her  pitiful  figure  is  defined  in  its 
slender  loveliness.  Her  robe  of  rich  russet  red  and  the  subdued 
green  of  the  cloak  which  has  fallen  from  her  shoulders  contrast 
with  the  soft  fairness  of  her  skin ; while  the  shining  glory  of  her 
hair,  falling  from  a narrow  fillet,  shrouds  her  like  a cloud,  and 
forms  a golden  background  to  the  pale  beauty  of  her  face.  The 
conception  is  arresting,  not  only  in  its  depth  of  colouring  and 
delicacy  of  workmanship,  but  in  its  extreme  simplicity.  Here 
is  no  straining  after  effect,  no  attempt  at  a tour  de  force  which  the 
painter  was  too  young  to  achieve  ; but  all  the  tenderness  of  a 
great  love,  all  the  desolation  of  a broken  heart  are  expressed  in 
the  pathetic  grace  of  that  bowed  figure,  crushed  beneath  its 
intensity  of  grief. 

This  picture  was  purchased  at  the  Private  View  by  the  Right 
Hon.  John  Mundella ; and  many  years  later  Mr.  Shaw-Sparrow 
wrote  of  it  as  follows  : — 

‘ The  maiden  name  of  Mrs.  William  De  Morgan  was  Evelyn  Pickering, 
and  twenty-three  years  have  passed  since  that  name  appeared  for  the  first 
time  in  the  catalogue  of  an  important  exhibition  of  pictures.  A painting 
in  oil  was  hung  then  at  the  Grosvenor  Gallery ; it  had  for  its  subject 
Ariadne  in  Naxos  ; it  was  close  in  drawing,  thoughtful  and  precise  in 
composition  ; and  its  style,  its  general  character,  was  Pre-Raphaelite, 
but  not  as  yet  in  what  may  be  called  a Victorian  manner.  Its  painter, 
that  is  to  say,  was  not,  in  1877,  a devoted  follower  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
Brotherhood.  Miss  Pickering  indeed  had  in  those  days  barely  scraped 
acquaintance  with  the  most  noted  men  of  genius  who  had  been  influenced 
by  the  modern  Pre-Raphaelite  movement.  She  had  not  seen  the  pictures 
that  Millais  painted  in  his  first  period,  nor  had  she  a chance  of  becoming 
familiar  with  them  till  they  were  brought  once  more  to  public  notice  by 
the  Millais  Exhibition  of  1886.  With  Rossetti’s  poetry,  in  1877,  Miss 
Pickering  was  well  acquainted,  but  of  his  genius  in  painting  she  knew 
scarcely  anything  at  all,  and  it  remained  almost  unknown  to  her  till  she 
visited  that  fine  show  of  Rossetti’s  pictures  which  was  held  after  his 
death.  As  regards  Burne-Jones  she  had  certainly  seen  a few  of  his 
paintings,  and  had  certainly  been  moved  by  their  peculiar  greatness  ; but 
the  influence  of  Burne-Jones  had  not  then  appeared  in  her  work.  . . . 
The  short  of  the  matter  is  that  Mss  Pickering’s  style  had  come  to  her  at 
first-hand,  a natural  expression  of  her  spiritual  nature.  She  understood 
the  great  predecessors  of  Raphael ; she  and  they  were  congenial,  “ across 
the  great  gulf  of  time  they  exchanged  smiles  and  a salute.”  Even  as  a 
child  she  made  friends  with  those  who  were  represented  in  the  National 
Gallery ; it  was  from  their  pictures  that  her  inborn  love  of  Art  received 


THE  THORNY  WAY 


I9i 

its  earliest  encouragement.  Other  aesthetic  influences  came  soon  after- 
wards, the  first  of  these  being  the  wise  sympathy  and  the  rich,  suggestive 
art  of  her  uncle,  Mr.  Roddam  Spencer-Stanhope.’ 

The  phrase  here  employed,  ‘ a natural  expression  of  her 
spiritual  nature/  is  singularly  apt  when  applied  to  the  work 
criticized.  It  is  in  the  character  of  a truism  to  emphasize  that 
there  are  three  standpoints  from  which  a picture  may  be  re- 
garded : one,  in  relation  to  its  individual  interpretation  of 

Nature ; one,  in  its  grasp  of  technique ; one,  in  its  reflection 
of  the  mentality  of  the  painter — its  exposition  of  some  truth  or 
purpose  which  the  artist  was  striving  to  express.  But  while  any 
just  estimate  of  achievement  must  obviously  appraise  each  of 
these  points,  it  is  from  the  last  that — to  many — the  pictures  of 
Evelyn  make  their  strong  appeal.  For  they  are  the  work  of  a 
scholar,  a thinker,  an  idealist ; and  it  is  the  mind  revealed  in  the 
picture  which  calls  to  minds  atune. 

As  to  the  especial  influence  upon  her  work  represented  by  her 
close  association  with  her  uncle,  Roddam  Spencer-Stanhope,  it  is 
difficult  to  take  the  exact  measure.  In  their  aim  and  their  vision, 
as,  too,  in  their  passionate  love  of  beautiful  colouring,  there  was 
a complete  harmony  between  the  older  and  the  younger  artist ; 
still  more  did  Evelyn  owe  an  inestimable  debt  to  the  sympathy 
and  encouragement  of  her  uncle.  Yet  their  work,  to  the  last, 
remained  distinct  and  individual ; while  later,  when  Evelyn  had 
achieved  a mastery  of  technique  in  which  Spencer- Stanhope 
failed,  with  unhesitating  generosity  he  acknowledged  the  fact  : 
‘ You  can  draw  infinitely  better  than  I do/  he  said,  ‘ I can  only 
envy  you  ! * So,  too,  in  regard  to  the  other  influence  of  which 
the  reviewer  speaks— her  friendship  with  Burne-Jones— only  a 
superficial  inspection  can  link  such  dissimilar  work  ; for  the  art 
of  Burne-Jones,  with  its  calm,  passionless  beauty,  is  more  Byzan- 
tine in  character,  while  that  of  Evelyn  never  wavered  from  her 
early  allegiance  to  the  glowing  and  more  animated  Italian  School 
of  the  Renaissance.  Moreover,  this  was  subsequently  accentu- 
ated by  her  closer  connexion  with  Tuscany  which  she  had  early 
loved.  From  1880  Spencer-Stanhope  made  his  permanent  home 
on  the  Apennine  Hills,  having  discovered  that  there  only  could 
he  procure  some  immunity  from  the  asthma  which  all  his  life  had 
hunted  him  from  place  to  place.  Thus  a second  home  at  Villa 
Nuti,  Bellosquardo,  and  an  annual  visit  to  Florence,  resulted  for 
Evelyn  ; and  in  that  old  grey  palace  of  the  Strozzi  Princes  she 
subsequently  visualized  some  of  her  fairest  inspirations,  looking 
out  through  a vista  of  roses  and  olives,  afar  to  a panorama  of 
blue  mountains,  and  down  to  the  lovely  Val  d’Arno  where, 
drowsing  in  the  sunlight,  lay  Florence,  the  city  of  bells. 

To  the  Grosvenor  Gallery  during  the  years  which  followed  she 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


192 

sent  annually — there  are  over  twenty-five  exhibits  recorded  to 
her  name  on  the  lists  ; and  at  its  cessation,  she  transferred  her 
work  to  the  New  Gallery.  It  was  perhaps  inevitable  that  the 
former  Institution  should  become  viewed  somewhat  in  the  light 
of  a rival  to  the  Academy,  and  that  those  who  had  once  enlisted 
in  the  ranks  of  its  contributors  should  feel  it  a point  of  honour 
to  remain  loyal  adherents  to  the  object  with  which  it  had  been 
inaugurated.  To  the  Academy  neither  Evelyn  nor  Spencer- 
Stanhope,  of  set  purpose,  ever  offered  a single  exhibit ; while 
Burne-Jones,  the  tardy  recognition  of  whose  genius  by  the  body 
of  Academicians  resulted  in  their  request  that  he  would  accept 
the  honour  of  Membership,  experienced  genuine  qualms  of 
conscience  in  acceding  to  their  offer. 

Meanwhile  Evelyn  sent  to  Exhibitions  at  Liverpool,  Man- 
chester, Birmingham,  Berlin,  and  others.  Some  of  her  pictures 
were  sold  by  the  Fine  Art  Society,  some  were  painted  on  com- 
mission, some  were  purchased  by  public  Galleries,  many  went  to 
America.  In  the  Russell-Cotes  Gallery  in  Bournemouth  is  a 
picture  Aurora  Triumphans  which  she  painted  at  the  age  of 
twenty- two,  and  on  which  her  initials  E.  P.  were,  by  a forgery, 
changed  to  E.  B.  J.,  so  that  for  twenty  years  it  was  believed  to 
be  the  work  of  Edward  Burne-Jones.  The  Walker  Art  Gallery 
at  Liverpool  purchased  another  large  canvas  entitled  Life  and 
Thought  emerging  from  the  Tomb.  Mr.  Imrie,  an  Art  Collector 
of  the  same  city,  ordered  successively  from  her  eight  pictures, 
and  distracted  her  much  by  announcing  his  desire  for  ‘ a single 
figure — preferably  in  white  ! * — instructions  which  the  young 
artist  did  not  attempt  to  carry  out.1 

4 She  made  her  name/  relates  Miss  Morris,  ' as  an  artist  of 
distinction.  Her  pictures  have  an  epic  quality  and  are  spacious 
in  conception,  while  [in  her  later  work]  showing  an  almost  ex- 
aggerated insistence  on  decorative  detail.  They  are  remarkable 
for  the  beauty  of  drapery  design,  for  drawing  vigorous  and 
delicate  and  for  sumptuous  colour,  for  great  enjoyment  of  tex- 
tures. She  had  astonishing  physical  endurance  and  power  of 
work,  starting  to  paint  early  in  the  morning  and  going  on  swiftly 
and  surely  throughout  the  day.  The  output  in  consequence 
was  very  great/ 

Among  her  early  pictures  she  painted  one,  now  in  Africa, 
which  she  called  The  Thorny  Way.  It  depicts  a Princess  stand- 
ing on  the  steps  of  a Palace,  clad  in  a lovely  robe  of  gold,  richly 

These  pictures  were  Flora,  the  Goddess  of  Blossoms  and  Flowers, 
exhibited  at  Glasgow  and  at  Wolverhampton  ; Gloria  in  Fxcelsis  (in  which 
the  Angel’s  wings  were  painted  from  the  wings  of  humming-birds)  ; The 
City  of  Light ; The  Crown  of  Glory  ; A Dryad  ; Helen  of  Troy  and  Cassandra 

(both  now  in  the  possession  of  the  author)  ; and  others  untraced,  including 
later  purchases  by  Mr.  Imrie. 


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THE  THORNY  WAY 


*93 

adorned  with  jewels.  Behind  her,  through  an  archway,  one 
sees  a vista  of  the  lovely  flower-bedecked  country  she  is  leaving  ; 
before  her  lies  the  path  at  which  she  is  gazing,  beset  with  cruel, 
giant  briars  on  which  she  is  about  to  tread  with  bare  feet — 

' Briars  like  bitter  words  and  thorns  like  malice, 

Great  twining  creepers  like  an  iron  thong * 

Mrs.  Fleming,  nee  Kipling,  seeing  this  picture,  wrote 
some  hasty  verses  on  it  as  she  had  done  on  the  picture  by  De 
Morgan,  one  version  of  which  ran  as  follows : — 

The  Thorny  Way. 

She  left  the  palace  of  the  King,  her  father  ; 

She  left  the  music,  and  she  left  the  throng ; 

She  left  the  thornless  flowers,  hers  to  gather 
At  her  own  will — without  a thought  of  wrong ; 

At  the  great  bidding  of  another  Father, 

The  King  of  Kings — whose  mandate  is  so  strong — 

She  turned  from  pleasure — unto  suffering  rather — 

And  set  her  feet  the  thorny  path  along. 

The  path  had  thorns  to  pierce  and  briars  to  sting  her  ; 

Snakes  that  were  hidden — savage  beasts  a-stir — 

And  yet  she  knew  it  was  the  way  to  bring  her 
Into  the  Path  of  Peace  prepared  for  her, 

Where  after  wounds  and  anguish  bravely  borne, 

There  shone  a Glory  from  a Crown  of  Thorn. 

Did  she,  one  wonders,  trace  a connexion  between  the  pur- 
suit of  an  Ideal  by  the  girl  in  the  picture  and  that  of  the  girl 
who  had  painted  the  picture  ? Be  that  as  it  may,  of  the  work 
which  the  young  artist  accomplished,  Sir  William  Richmond 
pronounced,  later  in  life,  ‘ Her  industry  was  astonishing,  and  the 
amount  which  she  achieved  was  surprising,  especially  considering 
the  infinite  care  with  which  she  studied  each  detail  in  her  deter- 
mination to  bring  it  to  the  highest  point  of  perfection.  I do 
not  think  she  ever  painted  a picture  on  which  she  did  not  invite 
my  criticism,  and  I always  found  her  work  remarkable.’  George 
Frederick  Watts  gave  a more  emphatic  verdict.  ‘ She  is  a long 
way  ahead  of  all  the  women,’  he  stated  on  one  occasion,  ‘ and 
considerably  ahead  of  most  of  the  men.  I look  upon  her  as  the 
first  woman- artist  of  the  day — if  not  of  all  time.’ 

So  the  years  passed — years  of  loneliness  and  work,  of  hard- 
ship and  poverty — but  years,  too,  of  happy  aspiration  and 
achievement ; till,  by  and  by,  in  the  ever- widening  circle  of  the 
friends  whom  they  shared  in  common,  she  and  De  Morgan  drifted 
together,  and  found  in  each  other  the  affinity  for  which  each 
had  been  waiting. 

The  story  runs  that  it  was  at  a fancy-dress  ball  given  by 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


194 

Mrs.  Walter  Bagehot  that  they  first  met,  and  laughed  together 
about  art,  life  and  the  eccentricities  of  humanity.  Evelyn,  in 
rose-colour,  wrote  herself  down  as  ‘ A tube  of  rose-madder * ; 
De  Morgan,  asked  to  name  his  costume,  described  it  as  f madder 
still.*  The  new  acquaintance  was  clinched  in  typical  fashion. 
Perturbed  at  the  perversity  of  a glove  which  refused  to  be 
buttoned,  he  at  length  turned  despairingly  to  his  partner : * If 

you  will  button  my  glove  for  me/  he  pleaded,  4 I will  give  you 
one  of  my  pots/  The  bargain  was  struck,  the  glove  was  but- 
toned, the  pot  accepted,  and  the  comradeship  cemented  for  all 
time. 

The  manner  in  which  news  of  the  engagement  was  com- 
municated to  Evelyn’s  family  was  equally  characteristic.  It 
must  first  be  explained  that  she  had  made  a practice  of  dining 
with  her  mother  in  Bryanston  Square  every  Sunday,  often 
bringing  with  her  some  friend.  Only  a short  time  previously  she 
had  alarmed  her  family  by  the  announcement  that  the  following 
week  she  intended  to  bring  to  dinner  a severe  elderly  female  of 
the  most  forbidding  and  cantankerous  type,  and  when  the  day 
came,  in  walked  the  antithesis  of  what  had  been  expected — 
a lovely  girl  of  sixteen  who  made  merry  at  the  dismay  which  her 
advent  had  occasioned — Margaret  Burne-Jones.  When,  there- 
fore, a letter  from  Evelyn  arrived  abruptly  announcing  that  she 
was  engaged  to  be  married,  and  was  intending  to  bring  her  fiance 
to  dinner  on  the  following  Sunday,  in  view  of  her  known  predilec- 
tion for  a practical  joke,  the  intelligence  was  received  with  the  in- 
credulity it  seemed  to  court.  Here,  obviously,  was  another  jest 
— this  time  too  far-fetched  for  credence  ! — Evelyn,  whose  sole 
romance  was  her  art — Evelyn  to  have  fallen  in  love,  to  be  en- 
gaged— to  be  about  to  be  married  like  any  ordinary  mortal — 
the  absurdity  of  the  suggestion  was  manifest.  So  an  answer 
was  dispatched  conveying  this  shrewd  interpretation,  and  elicited 
a somewhat  despairing  protest  from  the  recipient — ‘ But  I am 
serious  ; I will  bring  the  man  to  dinner  on  Sunday  ! * Only 
then  did  a slight  misgiving  cross  her  mother’s  mind.  ‘ You  don’t 
think  there  can  be  any  truth  in  it  ? ’ she  questioned  hesitatingly, 
and  the  supposition  was  received  with  derision.  ‘ Evelyn  would 
never  look  at  any  man,’  pronounced  one  of  her  brothers  com- 
placently— ‘ unless  it  was  a picturesque  Italian  organ-grinder  ! * 

But  when  the  dinner  hour  arrived  the  following  Sunday,  with 
it  arrived  a man  who,  despite  the  embarrassment  consequent 
upon  the  novelty  of  his  position,  had  an  attractive  manner  and 
greeted  the  family  as  his  own.  Inquiries  subsequently  elicited 
that  he  was  known  to  Spencer-Stanhope,  who  affirmed  that  he 
had  heard  ‘ nothing  but  good  of  De  Morgan  * ; and  all  went 
merry  as  a marriage  bell,  save  that,  owing  to  the  infatuation  for 
manufacturing  pottery  displayed  by  the  prospective  bridegroom. 


THE  THORNY  WAY 


195 

his  income  was  precarious,  and  the  engagement  was  likely  to 
prove  a lengthy  one.  ' We  are  only  engaged/  Evelyn  wrote  to 
her  uncle,  ‘ we  should  not  dream  of  getting  married  for  at  least 
fifteen  years  ! ’ ‘All  the  better/  he  rejoined  ; * there  will  be  less 
time  to  quarrel  in  ! * De  Morgan,  too,  when  questioned  respect- 
ing the  date  of  the  wedding,  replied  contentedly,  ‘ I don’t  see 
where  the  hurry  is — why,  I waited  over  eighteen  years  for  Evelyn 
to  be  born  ! ’ Most  people  received  the  news  with  incredulity. 

‘ Evelyn  and  William  De  Morgan  were  such  gifted  and  uncommon 
creatures/  writes  Miss  Robinson,  ‘ and  though — as  it  turned  out 
— so  suited  to  make  one  another  happy,  they  were  superficially 
so  un-alike.  I was  very  much  surprised  when  she  told  me  of 
their  engagement — she  was  such  a bright,  harum-scarum  thing 
and  he  then  seemed  to  me  such  an  old  bachelor  ! * Some  of  De 
Morgan’s  friends,  moreover,  took  him  to  task  facetiously  about 
his  projected  change  of  state  : — 

* It  is  very  inconvenient  and  inconsiderate  of  yon — really  ’ [runs  one 
of  these  letters],  ‘ as  it  puts  me  in  a regular  fix.  I have  always  been  in  the 
habit  latterly  of  sending  my  friends  a De  Morgan  pot  as  a wedding  present 
— I hardly  know  what  else  to  choose.  I suppose  you  would  not  care  for 
one,  would  you  ? they  really  are  very  beautiful  things,  and  not  too  common 
yet.  If  you  would,  I shall  be  happy  to  help  you  to  choose  one  ! ’ 

Meanwhile  in  the  ball-room  of  the  house  which  De  Morgan 
rented  in  Great  Marlborough  Street  the  engaged  couple  started 
a joint  exhibition  of  their  pottery  and  pictures.  There,  on 
Sunday  afternoons,  they  met,  and  jointly  entertained  their 
friends,  dispensing  tea  in  rose-coloured  De  Morgan  cups  which, 
lovely  in  themselves,  made  the  beverage  they  contained  look  like 
dirty  soup.  It  was  not  till  three  years  later  that  the  wedding 
took  place.  To  her  mother,  who  was  then  in  Italy  staying  with 
the  Spencer- Stanhopes,  Evelyn  wrote,  ‘ I should  hate  to  have  a 
fuss  ; may  we  have  a run-away  wedding  ? ’ and  the  answer  was 
sympathetic — ‘ By  all  means,  but  the  only  difficulty  I see  is 
there  is  no  one  to  run  away  from  ! ' 

Nevertheless,  when  the  wedding  took  place,  it  was  not  with- 
out an  element  of  adventure.  Few  friends  attended  the  quiet 
ceremony,  on  a bleak  March  day  in  1887,  when  the  bride’s  red 
dress  and  hat  formed  a refreshing  note  of  colour  in  the  prevailing 
gloom  of  a yellow  fog.  No  plans  had  been  made  for  the  honey- 
moon, and  the  couple  characteristically  drove  to  the  nearest 
station  to  see  what  trains  chanced  to  be  in  at  the  moment  of 
their  arrival.  The  somewhat  tame  result  of  this  novel  proceeding 
was  that  they  found  themselves  en  route  for  the  Isle  of  Wight. 
Thence  De  Morgan  wrote  to  Burne-Jones  to  announce  the  fact 
of  his  marriage,  and  also  that  he  and  his  wife  had  bought  a house 
in  the  Vale,  Chelsea,  where  they  expected  to  take  up  their  abode 
immediately  on  their  return. 


196 


EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


William  De  Morgan  to  Edward  Burne- Jones . 

* Black  Gang  Chine, 

* Isle  of  Wight, 

4 March  6,  ’87. 

* Dear  old  Ned,— 

* I must  just  send  you  a line  to  spare  you  the  shock  of  seeing  the 
Noose  in  the  Noosepaper.  I have  busted  and  bloomed  and  blossomed 
into  a married  man,  after  having  been  single,  man  and  boy,  for  more  than 
forty  years.  I hope  it  will  turn  out  well.  When  I have  misgivings,  I 
console  myself  with  the  rare  old  adage,  Vixere  nupti  ante  Agamemnona. 
If  my  recollection  serves  me  right  though,  Agamemnon  didn’t  come  off 
so  well  as  I deserve  to — as  for  him,  no  doubt  it  was  all  right,  for  he  was 
no  better  than  the  heathen.  Now  V m a ratepayer  ! 

‘ Me  and  Mrs. 

Demorganneepickering  (it  wants  a whole  line)  are  going  to  reside  in  a 
Wale,  where  indeed  Mrs.  Mould  told  Mrs.  Gamp  we  all  reside — but  this 
is  an  Imperium  in  Imperio — a subwale — just  oppersite  Paulton  Square, 
where  they  murdered  an  ’ousekeeper  and  shoved  her  in  a box  and  buried 
her  in  the  back  garden — this  is  considered  in  the  rent.  By  the  way,  we 
don’t  pay  any,  having  bought  the  lease,  and  perhaps  if  they’d  done  this 
in  the  case  of  the  Wale  of  the  Temple  there  wd  have  been  no  rent. 

‘ Anyhow  the  Wale  is  there.  We  don’t  know  our  number.  The 
postman  he  says  one  number,  Mr.  Whistler’s  French  bonne  opposite  she 
says  another — the  rate-collector  he  says  another.  Quot  homines,  tot 
sententiae  ! — however,  I will  speak  no  more  French.  Besides  a new  studio 
calls  the  passer-by’s  attention  to  the  Mansion.  He  cannot  pass  by 
neither,  because  he  can’t,  as  you’ll  see  when  you  come.  If  he  depends  on 
passing  by,  he’ll  have  to  come  on  the  parish — -I’m  sorry. 

* Now  to  the  point.  Robbed  of  all  linguistic  decoration,  all  flowers 
of  language,  and  figures  of  speech  (my  wife  is  agitating  me  by  remarks) 
it  is  that  I am  and  always  shall  be 

* Your  affectionate  friends, 

‘ Wm.  de  Morgan. 

4 Evelyn  de  Morgan. 

4 She  began  it  with  a P.  !.* 

Edward  Burne-Jones  to  William  De  Morgan. 

Undated. 

4 My  dear  D.M., — 

4 We  all  live  in  a WALE. 

4 Me  as  well  as  you  does. 

I have  been  ill.  I have  been  uncommon  ill,  and  can’t  go  out,  I can’t ; so 
I can’t  come  to  you,  not  brobly  for  days  to  come  I can’t.  . . . 

* Did  you  expect  an  answer  to  your  letter,  dear  fellow  ? Have  you 
known  me  these  forty  years  and  still  expect  answers  to  letters  ? 

* I should  like  to  see  that  house — yes,  I should.  But  I have  been  ill. 
I have  had  a bad  illness — I was  in  danger  of  swearing  very  often — it  was  a 
cold — nothing  is  worse  than  a cold  except  2 colds,  I have  had  2 colds — I 
am  much  weakened.  I have  not  been  happy.  I hate  being  unwell.  I 
hate  the  least  discomfort.  I like  things  to  go  happily,  prosperously  and 
smoothly — that’s  what  I mean  by  Ethics,  and  I mean  the  same  thing  by 
political  economy,  and  my  aspirations  in  socialism  are  all  founded  on  my 
being  well  and  prosperous  and  happy. 

4 I am  your  affect,  friend, 

4 E.  Burne-Jones.’ 


WILLIAM 
AND  EVELYN 
DE  MORGAN 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 
1887-1908 


HE  Vale,  where  the  De  Morgans  took  up  their  abode,  was 


a unique  little  bit  of  old  Chelsea,  now,  alas  ! demolished 
to  make  way  for  what  to  a modern  builder  seems,  if  not  a new 
Heaven,  at  least  a desirable  and  very  new  Earth. 

Formerly,  as  one  walked  along  the  noisy  and  unappetizing 
King’s  Road,  nearly  opposite  Paulton  Square,  one  came  to  a 
small  crossing  guarded  by  an  unpretentious  wooden  gate,  curi- 
ously rural  in  appearance  and  suggestive  of  being  the  entrance 
to  some  derelict  country  field.  The  chances  were  against  the 
casual  passer-by  even  noticing  its  existence  ; but  those  who  had 
occasion  to  penetrate  to  the  precincts  beyond  it  found  them- 
selves in  a roadway  resembling  a country  lane  which,  in  the 
sudden  hush  that  fell,  seemed  a veritable  oasis  from  the  turmoil 
of  the  noisy  thoroughfare  they  had  left.  This  little  retreat  was 
a cul  de  sac  down  which  no  vehicles  drove  and  no  foot-passengers 
passed  save  only  those  who  sought  one  of  the  three  isolated 
houses  that  nestled  there,  each  in  the  midst  of  a spacious  garden. 
It  terminated  in  green  sward  and  waving  trees,  the  remains  of 
m ancient  deer-park  ; and  the  quiet  was  broken  only  in  true 
rural  fashion  by  the  song  of  birds  or  the  droning  of  the  far-away 
traffic  so  mellowed  by  distance  that  it  enhanced  the  prevailing 
sense  of  peace. 

The  quaint,  rambling  dwelling  taken  by  the  De  Morgans 
stood  on  the  left  of  the  lane,  shrouded  in  creepers,  with  a veranda 
Dack  and  fsont.  A greenhouse  overlooked  the  garden,  where 
lourished  an  ancient  vine  and  a figtree,  though  some  of  the  fine 
>ld  mulberry  trees,  which  seemed  survivals  from  a former 
>rchard,  had  to  be  cut  down  to  make  way  for  a studio  which 
ivelyn  built.  On  one  side  of  the  house  stretched  the  former 
leer-park,  and  opposite  to  it  was  the  lovely  spot  where  Whistler 
'rew  his  larkspurs  round  a velvet  lawn  and  Alfred  Austin  was 
nspired  to  pen  ‘ Farewell  summers  from  a garden  that  I love.’ 

Long  years  afterwards,  when  writing  his  last  novel,  De  Mor- 
gan depicted  this  house  in  the  Vale,  disguised  under  the  original 


199 


200 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


name  of  Kelmscott  House,  ‘ The  Retreat  ’ ; and,  imagining  it  as 
it  must  surely  have  been  at  an  earlier  age  of  its  existence  when 
it  was  a genuine  country  house  amid  country  surroundings,  he 
made  it  the  home  of  the  Old  Man's  Youth , a vision  of  a happy 
past  to  the  hero,  Eustace  John,  then  dying  in  Chelsea  In- 
firmary. 

‘ In  those  days/  he  relates,  resuscitating  in  the  story  the 
actual  conditions  of  his  own  boyhood,  ' you  could  walk  from 
Putney  to  Chelsea  through  fields  all  the  way  by  keeping  off  the 
road  a little.  ...  I can  recall  now  what  the  hay  smelt  like  ' 

. . . and  ‘ The  Retreat ' he  imagines  thus  : ' The  lane  was  lined 
with  trees  on  either  side,  elm  and  chestnut,  and  was  entered  by 
a swing-gate,  down  a private  carriage  way  shared  by  two  or  three 
residences  at  the  end.  The  gravel  pathway  made  a circle  be- 
tween them,  round  some  older  elms,  to  make  a turning  for  things 
on  wheels.  At  the  end  on  the  left,  unseen  at  first,  was  a garden  ’ 

. . . and  again  he  dwells  reminiscently  on  the  all-pervading 
scent  of  hay  which  filled  the  air  in  that  far-away  summer,  of  the 
intoxicating  masses  of  sweet  peas  and  roses  to  be  seen  on  the 
smooth  lawn  before  the  trim  house — even  around  the  old  figtree 
he  weaves  a tender  romance — while  he  shows  the  vista  of  a real 
meadow  beyond  the  fence,  with  a real  deer  park  where — actually  ! 
— fallow-deer  were  then  browsing  on  land  which  formed  part  of 
some  private  estate  with  grand  old  timber. 

* “ I’ll  show  you  the  house  ” — [he  represents  the  fictitious  tenant 
saying  to  Eustace  John]  ..."  my  wife  is  dead  now,  and  I have  to  go. 
We  lived  here  fifty  years.  The  house  was  new  when  we  came.  Come 
through  into  the  garden  and  see  the  figtree  I planted.  Fifty  years 
ago  ! ” 

‘ We  followed  him  straight  through  the  house  and  a greenhouse  into 
the  garden.  It  was  a lovely  garden,  and  stretched  away  to  the  high 
hedge  with  a road  beyond,  and  hay  carts  at  a standstill  at  a roadside 
pothouse.  I saw  a carter’s  head  and  hands  and  a quart  pot  above  the 
mountain  of  hay  that  hid  his  residuum.  He  had  been  too  lazy  to  get 
down  for  his  drink. 

* " It  isn’t  what  it  was,”  said  the  old  man.  “ It  was  open  country 
then.  All  built  up  now — all  built  up  ! ” He  looked  towards  the  backs 
of  new  houses  that  were  asserting  themselves  crudely  along  the  King’s 
Road.  . . .’ 

And  then  that  graphic  sun-lit  vision  of  a bygone  Chelsea 
fades  ; and  the  writer  describes  with  mingled  pathos  and  humour 
how  Eustace  John  returns  as  an  old  man  to  gaze  at  the  trans- 
formed ‘ Retreat/  then  inhabited  by  De  Morgan  and  his  wife. 

‘ The  last  time  I saw  the  place  . . . our  house  was  no  longer  there, 
but  traces  of  it  appeared  in  the  structure  of  two  smaller  houses,  on  its 
site,  one  of  them  inhabited  by  artists,  who  had  built  a studio  on  our 
garden.  Where  have  they  not  done  so,  and  who  wants  the  work  they  do 
in  them  ? Nemesis  had  come  upon  these,  for  a giant  factory  has  sprung 
up  and  overwhelmed  them  and  their  studio.  . . .’ 


a.  © 


.s  ® 

*p,5 

» c 

2 -o 

S-g 

« o 

B ■3  5 
x 2 « 
g S w 


coming.  ( Explanation  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan.) 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


201 


But  though  a network  of  sordid  streets  and  the  blank  wall 
of  a factory  had  indeed  blotted  out  all  trace  of  the  lovely  rural 
scene  pictured  by  De  Morgan,  at  the  date  when  he  went  to  live 
there,  the  houses  in  the  Vale,  with  their  peppercorn  rental,  still 
bravely  defied  the  extinction  that  had  overwhelmed  their  former 
surroundings.  Full  of  unexpected  nooks  and  irregularities, 
spruce  with  gay  Morris  papers,  and  decorated  with  De  Morgan 
pots  and  rich-hued  paintings,  the  home  to  which  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  then  returned  had  no  trace  of  the  desolation  which 
afterwards  overtook  it,  and  seemed  a fitting  haven  of  peace  for 
two  lovers  of  the  Beautiful. 

Above  an  archway  looking  out  on  to  the  garden  Evelyn  hung 
a picture  that  she  had  recently  painted  and  which  she  always 
refused  to  sell,  entitled  Love’s  Passing.  In  tone  and  conception 
it  is  reminiscent  of  an  earlier  work  by  her  that  had  attracted 
considerable  notice,  By  the  Waters  of  Babylon,1  and  the  note  of 
sadness  which  permeates  the  poetry  of  its  inspiration  endows  it 
with  a subtle  charm.  Two  lovers  seated  in  the  twilight  are 
listening  to  Love’s  piping — a radiant  Love  with  rose-hued  wings 
and  robe  which  contrast  with  the  paler  glory  of  the  sunset  sky 
and  the  rising  moon  whose  beams  fall  upon  the  silver  river  be- 
hind him.  And  the  man,  seated  upon  the  beflowered  bank,  is 
listening  enraptured  to  the  strains  of  Love’s  music,  but  the 
woman,  in  whose  face  is  a dreamy  wistfulness,  is  holding  up  a 
hand  as  though  bidding  him  hearken  to  another  sound  which  she 
alone  hears — the  footsteps  of  Old  Age  and  Death  who  are  ap- 
proaching inevitably  on  the  other  side  of  the  River  of  Life.  The 
picture  was  illustrative  of  the  verses  in  Tibullus,  which  were 
translated  thus  : — 

‘ List  we  to  Love  meanwhile  in  lovers’  fashion  ; 

Death  nears  apace,  with  darkness  round  his  brows ; 

Dull  Eld  is  stealing  up  to  shame  our  passion  ; 

How  shall  grey  hairs  beseem  these  whispered  vows  ? * 

But,  for  the  present,  dull  Eld  and  Death  were  far  away ; 
and  these  two,  the  Potter  and  the  Painter,  started  life  together 
with  as  fair  a prospect  of  contentment  as  ever  fell  to  the  lot  of 
humanity.  Perhaps  since  the  days  of  the  Brownings  there  has 
been  no  more  perfect  instance  of  a husband  and  wife  who  shared 
a harmony  of  tastes  and  a happiness  independent  of  external 
conditions,  since  no  joy  can  equal  that  of  the  god-like  gift  of 

1 Of  this  picture  Percy  Bate,  in  his  book  The  English  Pre-Raphaelite 
Painters , page  112,  remarks:  ' In  the  case  of  Mrs.  De  Morgan,  the  more 
elaborate  compositions  that  she  has  painted  . . . Love's  Passing,  The 
Gray  Sisters,  that  fine  work  By  the  Waters  of  Babylon  and  The  Dawn,  are 
pictures  from  her  easel  distinguished  by  rich  and  brilliant  colouring,  great 
decorative  charm,  and  sincere  poetic  inspiration,  qualities  that  mark  this 
artist.  . . .* 


202 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


creation.  Even  the  disparity  of  years  between  them  tended  to 
enhance  this  ; for  the  vivid  excitability  of  Evelyn’s  temperament 
was  counterbalanced  by  the  placidity  of  De  Morgan’s  maturer 
outlook ; and  another  characteristic  they  had  in  common  has 
before  been  referred  to — a bond  of  union  which  the  years  could 
not  break — an  irrepressible  sense  of  humour.  Those  who  work 
together  and  laugh  together  can  in  truth  never  stray  far  from 
the  glamour  of  Love’s  piping. 

One  of  the  first  letters  which  greeted  them  in  their  new  home 
was  from  Burne-Jones — now  convalescent. 

‘ I have  risen  from  a sick  bed — that’s  a hyperbole,  the  bed  wasn’t 
sick,  wish  it  had  been,  for  the  disaster  could  somehow  have  been  remedied. 
The  Influenza  is  the  worst  of  all  diseases — not  that  I deny  the  merits  of 
sciatica  for  a moment. 

* You  remember  my  legs  ? — I humbly  ask  where  they  are.  The  frail 
collapsible  sticks  that  pretend  to  support  me  I deny  to  be  my  legs  ; and  a 
trifle  breaks  me  down  . . . not  for  a moment  that  your  letter  was  a 
trifle — far  from  the  contrary.’ 

But  at  length  he  wrote  more  cheerfully  : — 

f My  dear  D.  M., — 

‘ May  i come  an  feed  with  you  of  a Wensday  next  at  7 if  i may  ill 
come  at  7 nex  Wenesday  about  7 in  the  evenin  for  im  a early  bird  and  fowls 
my  own  nest  about  ten  on  the  outside,  ive  been  at  the  seeside  and  i am 
better  thank  you  for  astin  i were  precious  done  up  afore  i went  along  of 
them  pictures,  never  again  i says  never  again  will  i be  hurried  and  flustered 
like  that  but  spend  an  evenin  with  you  i certainly  will  and  Wenesday  at 
7 is  my  umble  propojal 

* your  affec, 

‘ Ned.’ 

• My  yph  [wife]  wants  to  know  if  yor  mother  is  in  London  ? * 

William  De  Morgan  to  Mrs.  Burne- Jones . 

* Dear  Mrs.  Ned, — 

‘ My  Mummy  I find  has  made  up  her  mind  to  start  for  Hunstanton — 
pronounced  Hunston — on  Tuesday,  so  I send  this  line  to  prevent  your 
trying  to  look  her  up.  It  would  be  no  use  your  coming  to  find  she  had 
gone  to  Hunston,  spelled  Hunstanton — (by  the  bye,  ought  spelled  to  be 
spelt  spelled,  or  spelled  spelt  ?).’ 

Later  that  same  year  Burne-Jones  made  merry  with  the 
bride  and  groom  over  an  appropriate  letter  of  which  they  had 
become  possessed  during  a brief  holiday  in  Devon. 

Copy  of  a letter  found  on  the  beach  at  Sidmouth  by 
Evelyn  De  Morgan. 

* My  dearest  Marey, — 

* i be  verry  well  and  appey  to  inform  you  that  i be  very  well  at 
present  and  i hope  you  be  the  same  dear  Marey — i be  verry  sorry  to  hear 
how  as  you  don’t  like  your  quarters  as  i chant  be  able  to  look  on  your  dear 
face  so  offen  as  i have  done  dearest  Marey  pure  and  holy  meek  and  loly 
loveley  Rose  of  Sharon.  Dear  Marey,  dear  Marey  i hant  got  now  Know 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


203 

particler  noose  to  tell  ye  at  present  but  my  sister  that  marryd  have  got 
such  a nice  lettel  babey,  and  i wish  how  as  that  our  littel  afEare  was  settled 
and  we  had  got  such  a nice  lettel  dear  two. 

‘ Dearest  Marey  i shall  not  be  appy  till  then  Dearest  Marey  pure  and 
holy  meek  and  loly  lovely  Rose  of  Sharon.  Sometimes  i do  begin  to 
despare  as  i am  affraid  our  not  will  never  be  tide  but  my  Master  have 
prommist  i how  as  that  when  i git  ye  he  will  putt  ye  in  the  Darey  yard  to 
feed  the  Piggs  and  ge  ye  atin  pens  a week  Dearest  Marey  puer  and  holey 
meek  and  loly  lovely  Rose  of  Sharon.  i be  comming  over  tomorrow  to 
by  the  Ring  and  you  must  come  to  the  stayshun  to  mete  me  and  bring 
a pese  of  string  with  you  the  size  of  your  finggar  and  be  shure  you  don’t 
make  A miss  take  dear  Marey 

‘ Father  is  A going  to  ge  us  a beddsted  and  Granny  A 5 lb  note  to  by 
such  as  washin  stand  her  irons  mouse  trap  and  Sope,  and  wee  must  wayte 
till  wee  can  by  carpetting  and  glass  crackery  ware  and  chiney.  Dearest 
Marey  pure  and  holy  meek  and  loly  lovely  rose  of  Sharon,  i be  very  appy 
to  say  our  old  Sow  As  got  7 young  uns  laste  nite  and  Father  is  a going  to 
ge  us  A roosester  for  our  Weding  Brakefest  Dearest  Marey  pure  and 
holey  meek  and  loly  lovely  Rose  of  Sharon.  So  no  more  at  present  from 
your  fewture  and  loving  husband 

* William  Taylor.’ 

But  even  while  through  the  light-hearted  laughter  of  those 
days  there  rings  no  note  of  misgiving,  not  for  long  could  the 
prosaic  troubles  of  life  be  kept  at  bay ; and  to  understand  the 
trend  of  events  it  is  necessary  to  glance  again  at  the  history  of 
De  Morgan's  work  during  the  years  immediately  preceding  and 
following  his  marriage. 

As  we  have  seen,  a potter  is  unfortunately  in  a different  cate- 
gory from  that  of  the  painter  of  pictures  in  that  he  is  not  depen- 
dent for  the  expression  of  his  art  upon  individual  genius  or 
individual  effort.  Into  the  materialization  of  his  creation  enter 
faculties  other  than  the  artistic — endless  commercial  considera- 
tions and  mechanical  accessories  which  add  complications  to  its 
development.  Before  he  can  see  the  fruition  of  his  dreams,  it 
is  necessary  to  secure  and  maintain  at  heavy  cost  large  premise? 
for  a factory  and  workshops,  show-rooms  in  a suitable  locality 
where  the  work  produced  can  be  brought  before  the  eyes  of  the 
public ; a large  staff  of  salaried  coadjutors — efficient  draughts- 
men to  reproduce  designs,  workmen  for  each  department,  sales- 
men for  the  show-room  ; while  big  kilns  have  to  be  kept  going 
and  apparatus  requisite  to  the  work  constructed  and  recon- 
structed. ‘ I have  just  been  half  killed  with  anxiety  over  the 
new  oven,'  De  Morgan  wrote  on  Christmas  Day,  1889  ; ‘ Anyone 
who  wants  to  be  really  anxious  had  better  build  an  oven  as  big 
as  a house,  and  have  it  go  wrong  at  the  first  firing  ! ' And  therein 
lay  the  crux  of  the  situation — it  was  necessary  to  be  prepared 
to  face  ever-recurring  disaster  and  loss  with  a smiling  equanimity 
and  ready  cash  ; so  that  to  a man  with  limited  capital  it  meant 
a perpetual  balancing  between  output  and  receipts  for  which  De 
Morgan  of  all  men  remained  the  least  suited. 


204  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

One  of  his  important  undertakings  may  be  cited  as  a case  in 
point.  During  visits  to  Rhodes,  Cairo  and  Damascus,  Lord 
Leighton  had  made  a large  collection  of  lovely  Saracenic  tiles, 
besides  subsequently  procuring  some  panels,  stained  glass,  and 
lattice  work  from  Damascus.  These,  on  his  return,  were  fitted 
into  an  Arab  Hall  at  Leighton  House,  which.,  begun  in  1877,  was 
not  entirely  finished  till  1881  ; and  during  its  construction,  it 
was  found  that  the  supply  of  old  tiles  was  not  sufficient  to  com- 
plete the  work.  De  Morgan,  therefore,  was  asked  to  remedy  the 
deficiency  by  making  replicas  of  the  ancient  tiles,  as  well  as  by 
carrying  out  the  scheme  of  decoration  with  original  tiles  of  appro- 
priate design.  So  perfect  were  his  reproductions  of  the  old 
Syrian  ware  both  in  colour  and  glaze,  that  it  is  impossible  to 
distinguish  between  the  ancient  and  the  modern  work  ; while  the 
wonderful  blue,  intersected  by  a line  of  gold,  which  he  employed 
in  the  rest  of  the  decoration  vies  in  gorgeousness  of  hue  with  the 
productions  of  the  oriental  potters.  Nevertheless,  this  achieve- 
ment, though  an  artistic,  was  not  a financial,  success,  for  he  found 
himself  five  hundred  pounds  out  of  pocket  by  it ; a fact  of  which, 
needless  to  say,  he  never  allowed  Lord  Leighton  to  be  aware. 
But  this  was  only  one  of  many  instances  in  which  the  heavy  cost 
of  production  either  exceeded  the  retail  price  that  he  felt  it 
possible  to  ask,  or  else  threatened  to  cripple  the  perfection  at 
which,  with  the  passion  of  a true  artist,  he  aimed  whatever  the 
outlay. 

Into  the  breach,  however,  his  wife  stepped  buoyant!}/.  A 
large  portion  of  her  capital  she  devoted  unhesitatingly  to  the 
support  of  the  fluctuating  business  ; and  when  remonstrated 
with,  her  reply  was  the  derisive  comment : ‘You  don’t  under- 
stand the  feu  sacre  ! ' Her  enthusiasm  was  worthy  of  the  man 
she  had  married ; and  as  Sir  William  Richmond  points  out,  she 
would  have  staked  her  all  ‘ to  make  one  more  splendid  pot.’ 
During  the  critical  years  which  followed,  there  were  times  indeed 
when  in  the  incessant  anxiety  which  was  her  portion,  she  ad- 
mitted that  the  pottery  was  ‘ insatiable  as  Cerberus  ! ’ but  never 
for  one  instant  did  her  courage  falter  or  her  devotion  slacken, 
never  were  her  own  comfort  or  her  own  needs  allowed  to  weigh 
against  the  success  of  the  venture  in  which  she  knew  De  Morgan’s 
happiness  to  be  involved. 

With  the  new  life  infused  into  it,  for  a space  the  enterprise 
seemed,  if  not  progressing  towards  financial  success,  at  least 
heading  off  financial  failure,  and  sufficiently  prosperous  to  enable 
De  Morgan  to  pursue  without  disaster  the  work  on  which  his 
heart  was  set.  It  is  obvious  that  when  a man  lives  balancing 
himself  perpetually  on  the  edge  of  a precipice,  the  conditions  are 
scarcely  conducive  to  the  best  inspiration  ; yet  it  is  impossible 
here  to  mention  in  detail  the  various  undertakings  which  he 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


205 

accomplished  brilliantly  throughout  this  period,  including  the 
fine  decoration  of  the  Czar’s  yacht  Livadia,  and  that  of  Sir  William 
Orchardson’s  house  ; or  the  part  which  he  played  in  inaugurating 
the  Exhibition  of  Arts  and  Crafts.  But  so  it  was  that  whenever 
he  seemed  about  to  escape  from  the  sordid  considerations  which 
fettered  his  powers  of  production,  Fate  dealt  an  adverse  blow 
which  effectually  shattered  all  that  he  had  been  laboriously 
building  up  through  years  of  patient  striving.  Thus  it  had 
been  in  the  days  of  Fitzroy  Square  when  the  flames  wrecked 
the  manufacture  of  stained  glass  just  when  this  was  proving  re- 
munerative ; and  thus  it  was  with  the  pottery  at  a moment 
when  a fair  measure  of  prosperity  again  seemed  assured. 

The  symptoms  which  the  doctors  believed  to  indicate  that  De 
Morgan  was  suffering  from  tuberculosis  of  the  spine  reasserted 
themselves  ominously  ; and  a sojourn  at  Bath  failed  to  allay  the 
evil.  The  following  spring,  1893,  he  was  somewhat  opportunely 
sent  out  to  Cairo  on  behalf  of  the  Egyptian  Government  to  in- 
vestigate the  facilities  for  promoting  an  industry  in  Egyptian 
pottery  ; and  the  official  report  which  he  prepared  in  this  con- 
nexion was  the  first  original  prose,  other  than  correspondence, 
which  he  ever  wrote.  Meanwhile  he  endured  increasing  weakness 
and  pain  in  the  back  ; and  the  doctors’  fiat  was  at  last  decisive 
that,  if  his  life  were  to  be  prolonged,  for  the  future  he  must 
always  winter  abroad. 

The  fact  that  the  diagnosis  which  led  to  this  verdict  was 
entirely  wrong,  and  that  De  Morgan  was  merely  suffering  from 
a severe  sprain,  adds  an  irony  to  the  mistake  which  wrecked  his 
career  as  a potter.  At  first,  however,  the  full  extent  of  the 
disaster  entailed  by  such  a banishment  was  not  apparent.  With 
the  Spencer-Stanhopes  already  established  in  Italy,  De  Morgan 
and  his  wife  naturally  determined  to  go  thither.  Both  loved 
Tuscany,  and  the  thought  of  escaping  from  the  gloom  and  fog 
of  a London  winter  to  a sunny  climate  appealed  to  them.  There, 
in  the  clearer  atmosphere  of  Florence,  Evelyn’s  painting  would 
not  be  hindered  by  days  of  darkness,  and  De  Morgan  believed 
that  he  could  carry  on  his  own  work  without  much  additional 
trouble.  Still  more,  an  event  had  recently  occurred  which  made 
his  absence  from  England  during  a portion  of  the  year  more 
practicable. 

In  1892  Sophia  De  Morgan  died  as  she  had  lived,  a pictur- 
esque and  remarkable  figure  to  the  last.  ‘ Of  William’s  mother 
I could  write  from  memories  full  of  affection  and  admiration,’ 
records  Miss  Morris.  ‘ In  earlier  days  she  had  been  in  the  fore- 
front of  the  philanthropy  and  the  schemes  of  education  which 
the  condition  of  the  country  at  that  time  seemed  to  call  for  at 
private  hands.  When  we  knew  her  she  was  a slender,  trans- 
parent being,  tall  and  fragile  and  worn  by  sorrows ; her  dignity 


206 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


of  bearing  and  the  keen  interest  and  pleasure  she  took  in  the  life 
around  her  an  example  to  all/  Yet  despite  the  serenity  of  old 
age,  there  were  times  when  Sophia  De  Morgan  might  well  have 
posed  as  ‘ Our  Lady  of  Sorrows  ’ — Our  Lady  when  the  sword  had 
pierced  her  heart  and  the  glory  of  motherhood  had  been  turned 
to  anguish.  Since  the  sunny  days  at  Fordhook  when,  as  a 
young  wife,  she  had  tended  her  babies  with  such  zealous  care, 
she  had  seen,  first  her  husband,  and  then  five  of  her  children — 
sons  and  daughters  of  rare  promise — laid  in  a premature  grave. 
Yet  the  faith  which  never  left  her  in  the  nearness  of  the  unseen 
world  had  supported  her  in  each  successive  loss  ; even  while  she 
exhibited  few  of  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  average  mystic.  Her 
brain  was  clear  and  penetrating ; she  was  full  of  interest  in  all 
the  topics  of  the  day — in  literature,  art  and  science ; while  she 
was  still  alert  to  receive  new  impressions  and  to  welcome  an 
order  of  things  to  which  she  was  unaccustomed.  ‘ Far  from 
being  frightened  at  new  ideas/  her  daughter  relates,  ‘ she  wel- 
comed with  interest  any  new  theory,  even  though  it  obliged  her 
to  do  battle  in  the  cause  of  some  of  her  cherished  beliefs.  Her 
powers  of  enjoyment  never  failed  her,  her  love  of  Nature  and  the 
great  pleasure  she  took  therein.  ...  It  is  often  said  that  the 
power  of  making  friends  departs  in  later  life,  but  with  my  mother 
this  was  not  the  case  ; she  was  able  to  form  friendships  and  take 
up  new  interests  at  eighty  with  almost  the  vigour  and  warmth 
of  eighteen.  Naturally  of  an  optimistic  temperament,  she  dwelt 
often  upon  the  great  improvements  of  the  times,  unlike  most 
old  people,  declaring  that  the  world  had  grown  better  since  her 
youth/ 

In  1887  she  wrote  her  Reminiscences ; and  five  years  later, 
an  octogenarian  with  faculties  unclouded  and  the  love  of  life 
undiminished,  she  passed  away  peacefully  in  her  sleep.  ‘ Such 
an  end/  records  her  daughter,  ‘ as  she  would  doubtless  have 
desired,  or,  as  she,  according  to  her  strong  beliefs,  would  have 
said — such  a passing  to  another  life  to  begin  afresh/ 

With  her  death,  one  of  the  strongest  links  which  bound  De 
Morgan  to  England  was  severed  ; and  he  turned  his  attention 
bravely  to  duplicating  his  business  out  in  Florence,  whence  he 
hoped  to  direct  and  govern  the  distant  factory  in  Fulham. 

' Thus/  relates  Miss  Morris,  ‘ began  that  dual  existence, 
tantalizing  and  somewhat  mournful  to  a man  of  warm  affections 
and  keen  interests  in  his  own  country,  but  yet  not  without  its 
compensations.  Of  late  years  Florence  has  been  deteriorating 
with  increasing  speed  ; but  in  1893,  though  the  city  had  already 
lost  many  of  her  greatest  charms,  she  was  still  full  of  delight, 
and  there  were  many  corners  of  quiet  beauty  where  the  shadows 
of  her  noblest  days  yet  lingered.  The  De  Morgans  settled  down 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


20  7 

in  the  city,  and  spent  the  week-ends  with  the  Spencer- Stanhopes 
on  the  Bellosquardo  Hill,  where  the  amenities  of  English  villa 
life  awaited  them,  among  those  stately  gardens  amid  the  pene- 
trating magic  that  hangs  over  the  flowered  terraces  and  scented 
pine-woods  of  the  ancient  Tuscan  land.  Here  in  Florence  the 
designing  was  carried  on,  and  that  part  of  the  work  which  could 
be  done  away  from  the  factory  in  London.  Picture  a Florentine 
workshop  ‘ betwixt  sun  and  shade/  a long  building  in  the  garden 
fragrant  with  roses,  growing  Italian-fashion  in  their  unimagin- 
able masses,  where  six  or  seven  men  worked  under  the  most 
delightful  conditions.  Those  who  have  seen  Tuscan  craftsmen 
at  work  know  what  they  have  inherited  from  that  past  of  which 
we  still  know  so  little  in  detail.  None  of  the  men  were  trained 
painters — just  common  imhianchini,  whom  De  Morgan  taught 
to  work  in  his  method,  and  of  them  he  said  “ he  never  had  had  to 
do  with  such  hands  and  eyes/’  In  his  workshop,  with  a high 
standard  of  work  and  high  wages,  they  quickly  improved  their 
worldly  positions  and  became  " signori  ” ; and  all  was  well.  We 
must  suppose  that  they  were  equally  happy  later,  when  the 
influence  had  passed  from  them,  and — still  signori — they  mod- 
elled figurini  of  ballet-girls  and  all  the  cheap,  humorous  statuary 
from  which  the  sensitive  visitor  to  Florence  averts  his  eyes  in 
passing ; but  there  it  is,  so  much  fine  teaching,  so  much  admir- 
able skill,  and  the  result  as  ephemeral  as  a summer  day.  . . . 

‘ The  invention  that  enabled  the  pottery  to  continue  under 
these  changed  domestic  conditions  was  applied  to  the  tiles,  which 
formed  a large  part  of  the  business,  and  which  were  now  all 
painted  in  Italy.  The  design  was  not  painted  direct  on  the  tile 
but  on  a whity-brown  paper  (they  could  not  get  it  bad  enough 
in  Italy,  the  home  of  beautiful  cartamano)  stuck  with  a little  soap 
on  a slightly  slanted  piece  of  glass,  the  semi-transparency  giving 
the  draughtsmen  greater  power  over  the  colour.  When  a quan- 
tity of  the  paintings  were  ready  they  were  sent  in  rolls  to  the 
London  factory  ; here  the  painted  paper  was  fixed  on  the  tile 
and  the  whole  was  covered  with  glaze  and  fired,  when  the  paper 
burned  right  away,  leaving  the  paint  on  the  clay  unimpaired. 
Specimens  of  new  design,  or  of  a change  in  colouring,  were  sent 
over  to  Florence  to  be  looked  at  and  corrected  if  need  be/  1 

Very  thin  tiles  were  likewise  specially  prepared  and  baked  in 
London  in  order  to  be  sent  out  by  post  to  Florence  so  that  De 
Morgan  could  judge  of  their  quality  and  effect ; while  drawings 
executed  by  him  were  as  constantly  sent  over  to  Fulham,  and  a 
code  was  established  by  which  he  could  telegraph  instructions 
to  the  heads  there  during  his  absence.  Most  of  the  pots,  how- 
ever, were  painted  in  England,  save  a few  which,  later,  were  baked 

1 The  Burlington  Magazine,  August,  1917,  Article  ‘ William  De 
™.L>rgai}/  by  Miss  Mav  Morris. 


208  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

in  the  kilns  of  Cantagalli  as  a commission.  So  the  new  business 
gradually  got  in  order  ; and  as  Miss  Morris  points  out,  there  were 
compensations  even  in  an  exile  which  he  soon  found  doubled  his 
work  and  involved  additional  anxiety. 

For  one,  in  what  became  the  annual  routine  of  that  migration 
to  Italy,  he  travelled  out  by  sea,  as  he  could  not  bear  the  long 
train- journey  which  jarred  his  spine  ; and  in  the  midst  of  his 
strenuous  life,  he  grew  to  look  forward  with  inexpressible  plea- 
sure to  the  restful  days  of  dreamy  inactivity  on  board  ship  when 
the  exhilarating  breezes  whipped  his  brain  into  greater  activity 
and  braced  his  delicate  constitution.  Like  his  wife,  he  had  a 
passionate  love  of  the  ocean  and  its  moods  ; the  ever-changing 
colour  and  mystery  of  its  unfathomed  depths,  donned  by  a limit- 
less space  of  sky,  stirred  all  the  artist  and  the  poet  in  him,  and 
filled  him  with  delight.  ‘ When  I die/  he  said  to  her  once, 
penetrated  with  the  beauty  of  the  scene  at  which  he  had  been 
gazing,  ‘ I should  like  to  be  buried  at  sea  during  a glorious  sun- 
rise off  the  Islands  of  Majorca  and  Minorca/ 

Moreover,  once  established  amid  the  roses  and  the  sunlight 
of  Florence,  he  appreciated  the  keen  co-operation  of  the  deft  and 
nimble  Italians,  so  quick  to  interpret  mechanically  ideas  to  which 
they  had  never  previously  been  accustomed,  and  which,  from  an 
artistic  standpoint,  they  yet  entirely  failed  to  understand.  His 
own  happy-go-lucky  nature  and  his  imperturbable  good-humour 
awoke  an  answering  chord  in  their  hearts,  so  that  they  soon  came 
to  regard  him  with  an  adoring  devotion  ; while  he,  on  his  part, 
entered  with  zest  into  the  spirit  of  the  wayward  Southern  tem- 
perament. Thus  when  they  were  lazy,  he  named  the  particular 
pattern  over  which  they  had  dawdled  unconscionably  the  Pochi 
(forthwith  wonderingly  pronounced  Pokey  by  the  Fulham  work- 
men), ‘ because/  he  explains,  ‘ they  did  so  few  in  a week  that  I 
put  them  on  piece-work  on  another  new  one,  which  had  to  be 
christened  Molto  ! * and  the  jest,  over  which  the  imbianchini 
made  merry  like  children,  caused  them  to  produce  Mottos  with 
a vigour  to  which  no  angry  remonstrance  could  have  moved 
them. 

In  like  manner,  the  week-ends  snatched  from  work  were 
looked  forward  to  by  De  Morgan  with  increasing  enjoyment. 
Spencer- Stanhope,  the  charm  of  whose  rare  personality  endeared 
him  to  all,  was  a man  of  wit  and  originality  of  outlook,  who  was 
in  sympathy  with  most  of  De  Morgan’s  views  of  life  and  art, 
while  the  beautiful  Villa  where  he  lived  was  a centre  alike  for 
the  English  colony  in  Florence  and  for  birds  of  passage,  among 
whom  were  many  acquaintances  and  comrades  shared  by  him- 
self and  De  Morgan  from  a far-away  past.  Friends  from  Eng- 
land were  constantly  appearing  unexpectedly  in  Florence  ; and, 
among  others,  Miss  Morris  came  to  winter  at  the  fourteenth- 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


209 

century  Villa  Mercedes,  adding  yet  another  to  the  many  links 
which  were  binding  the  potter  to  the  new  home  of  his  adoption. 

‘ Among  all  the  affectionate  remembrances  of  De  Morgan 
stored  with  other  treasures  of  memory,’  she  wrote  many  years 
afterwards,  * I like  to  linger  over  the  Italian  times  and  to  feel 
that  the  beautiful  side  of  his  life  in  Florence  must  have  been  a 
comfort  to  a man  wearing  out  brain  and  body  over  a business 
whose  most  triumphant  successes  did  but  spell  anxiety  and  the 
prospect  of  commercial  non-success  in  the  long  run.  Every  week 
the  De  Morgans  left  the  clamour  of  the  city  and  wound  their  way 
through  the  poderi  and  up  the  flowered  terraces  to  Villa  Nuti, 
where  they  could  enjoy  that  vision  of  the  noble  valley  wrapped 
in  its  luminous  veils,  and  the  cypress-clad  poggi  of  the  upland 
country  that  stretches  south  away.  Happy  in  his  English 
friends  there,  happy  in  the  matter-of-fact,  good-humoured  Tus- 
can contadini,  happy  in  the  humble  beautiful  things  of  the  frugal 
Italian  life  of  the  people,  he  could  rest  and  absorb  the  “attain- 
able good”  with  that  bearing  of  a philosopher  that  became  him 
so  well  in  later  life.  In  another  villa  on  the  hill  he  was  also 
affectionately  welcomed.  We  would  sit  long  after  the  evening 
meal  watching  the  fire-flies  mingle  with  the  stars  in  the  blue 
night  above  the  Arno  valley.  At  times  the  talk  fell  into  friendly 
silence,  and  the  nightingale’s  song  and  the  scent  from  the  rose- 
bowers  and  the  lily-hedges,  seemed  to  weave  more  closely  about 
us  all  that  spell  of  sympathy  that  no  trivial  thing  from  without 
could  ever  break — nor  ever  has  broken.’ 

De  Morgan  had  not  been  long  established  in  Florence  when 
he  wrote  to  endeavour  to  tempt  Burne-Jones  to  follow  his  plan 
of  migration. 

William  De  Morgan  to  Edward  Burne - Jones. 

* 15  Lungo  il  Mugnone, 

* Florence, 

* Nov.  17 th,  *93. 

‘ Dear  Ned, — 

‘ I said  as  how  I was  a-going  to  write  and  persuade  you  to  come 
and  winter  here,  and  here’s  half  the  winter  gone,  and  it’s  a hawful  pity — 
and  there  you  are  choking  in  the  fogs,  and  not  painting  all  the  possible 
pictures  by  Burne-Jones,  and  you’re  the  only  cove  that  can  do  them  that 
I know. 

‘ Well,  I’m  just  a-writing  now  because  my  conscience  struck  me  when 
I saw  stuck  up  “ App. — Studio  ” — only  I haven’t  been  about  much 
owing  to  stopping  in  the  house  for  a cold,  so  I hadn’t  opportunities  for  to 
see  App.  studios  before.  Well,  I went  and  saw  it  and  found  it  was  nice 
and  big,  and  only  Seshento  Shinkwarnter  per  annum,  that  is  50  L.,only 
in  Italy  50  L.  means  about  26  pounds  English.  And  I thought  to  myself 
what  a pity  Mr.  Burne-Jones  couldn’t  be  a-painting  in  this  here  studio 
instead  of — I stopped  short  there,  because  I don’t  wish  to  say  anything 
against  my  native  village. 

‘ However,  I know  it  seems  cruel  to  twit  you  with  your  circumstances, 
so  I will  say  not  a word  about  what  the  colour  of  the  sky  was  overhead 

0 


210 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


when  I came  ont  from  that  studio,  nor  will  I so  much  as  hint  what  it  was 
over  the  Carrara  mountains,  and  I will  draw  a veil  over  those  mountains 
that  you  may  remain  in  ignorance  of  a particular  complexion  they  got  off 
of  the  sunset.  These  are  things  that  it  is  only  Christian  to  conceal  from 
the  Northern  sufferer.  I could  not  wish  you  (for  your  own  sake)  to  realize 
that  it’s  along  of  the  snow  on  the  mountains  that  they  get  that  colour,  and 
that  it  doesn’t  come  down  here,  and  the  flowers,  fiori  della  terra,  are  a- 
blowing  and  a-growing  still,  and  you  can  buy  any  quantity  you  like  for 
trentashinkwy  at  the  stone  bench  along  by  the  Strozzi.  No  ! my  only 
doubt  is  if  I oughtn’t  to  write  and  assure  you  that  the  whole  place  is 
changed  into  Bayswater — which  it  isn’t  and  can’t  be,  though  they’ve  done 
a good  bit  that  way — and  that  it’s  a cold,  cold  place  and  a reeking  nest  of 
typhoid,  and  a few  more  similar  b — dy  lies  to  console  you  for  your  winter 
quarters.  We’ve  done  a good  lot  of  stopping  in  the  house,  because  some 
Americans  left  the  window  open  on  the  rail  in  the  Apennines,  and  I cotched 
cold — and  all  the  while  they  thought  we  wanted  it  open,  and  they  didn’t ! 
Why  did  Columbus  discover  America,  one  may  well  ask? 

* Give  my  love  to  your  wife,  and  children,  and  children’s  children.’ 

The  answer  to  this  letter  has  not  survived ; but  in  a com- 
munication from  Burne-Jones  the  following  spring,  reference  is 
made  to  the  fact  that  the  latter  had  just  accepted  a Baronetcy. 
He  had  dined  with  William  Morris  the  night  before  the  announce- 
ment appeared  in  the  press  ; but  had  not  had  courage  to  confess 
to  so  ardent  a Socialist  the  back-sliding  of  which  he  had  been 
guilty,  so  that  Morris  only  learnt  the  painful  tidings  from  The 
Times  the  next  morning.  The  subject  was  never  subsequently 
referred  to  between  the  friends. 

Edward  Burne- Jones  to  William  De  Morgan . 

* March , ’94. 

* Dear  D.  M., — 

‘ [In  pencil]  Your  letter  was  a delight. 

* This  will  not  be  a corresponding  delight — for  I am  writing  in  a train — 
the  only  quiet  place  I can  find  at  present,  and  it  jumps  and  jogs  ; but  if  I 
put  off  writing  I shall  never  do  it — that  is  my  way. 

‘ So  try  and  read  this. — Fitz  Burne-Jones  Ileft  in  bed,  for  it  was  very 
early — it  was  only  9 o’clock — I didn’t  know  it  was  so  hard  to  write,  or  I 
shouldn’t  have  begun.  . . . 

* I wouldn’t  have  begun  many  things  if  I had  known  they  were  so  hard. 

* The  picture  I am  doing,  for  instance  ! 

‘ It  represents,  but  no  we  won’t  go  into  that -’ 

* Dear  D.  M., — 

‘ I tried  to  write  you  a letter  in  a railway  train  yesterday,  but 
couldn’t  get  on  with  it,  it  jogged  so — not  the  letter  but  the  train.  I 
enclose  the  precious  fragment  for  its  autographic  value.  If  it  had  been 
written  in  ink  it  might  have  been  worth  4 d.  sterling. 

‘ All  you  say  in  your  letter  is  so.  I should  like  to  tell  you  privately 
that  I accepted  this  haughty  eminence  to  gratify  Mr.  Morris.  I hope 
soon  to  be  able  to  write  the  Right  Revd.  Mr.  Morris.  His  perpetual 
invectives  against  the  bourgeois  did  at  last,  I confess,  affect  my  mind, 
and  I believe  now  he’s  thoroughly  gratified.  . . . 

‘ We  had  a miserable  month  of  January- — a despair  of  a month.  Every - 
hodv  who  wasn’t  dead  was  ill,  and  everybody  who  wasn’t  ill  was  ruined. 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD  211 

...  A worse  time  for  calamities  of  friends  has  never  happened  to  us,  but 
we  begin  to  breathe  again. 

* It  was  nice  hearing  from  you.  My  mind  has  been  tormented  all 
the  day,  because  some  one  asked  me  a riddle,  and  even  told  me  the  answer 
to  it,  and  still  I can’t  understand. 

‘ The  answer  is  a real  answer,  and  no  nonsense  I believe,  but  it’s  no 
good,  I can’t  make  it  out,  and  here  it  is — 

‘ Ques.  When  is  a mouse  if  it  spins  ? 

* Ans.  The  higher  it  gets,  the  fewer. 

* If  I don’t  answer  it  before  a month  is  out,  I shall  be  lost. 

* All  of  us’s  loves  to  you  all. 

4 Yours  affct., 

‘ E.  B.  J. 

4 per  se.’ 

Meanwhile  De  Morgan  found  orders  pouring  in  despite  hi? 
absence  from  Fulham.  ‘ We  are  now  settled  here/  he  wrote, 
* and  are  desperately  busy.  Evelyn  has  got  well  to  work,  and  is 
going  ahead.  I am  muddling  on  without  doing  much  execu- 
tion/ Perhaps  one  of  the  first  events  which  brought  home  to 
him  the  difficulties  occasioned  by  his  absence  from  England  was 
a commission  which  arrived  from  the  Directors  of  the  P.  & O. 
liners.  With  the  Czar’s  yacht  as  a precedent,  they  wished  to 
have  some  of  their  ships  decorated  in  similar  fashion  with  tiles 
and  panels  ; and  De  Morgan  received  the  intimation  in  Florence 
with  mingled  alarm  and  protest. 

4 In  the  first  place,’  he  wrote  to  his  partner  Ricardo,  4 the 
designs  must  either  be  figure  pictures,  or  not.  If  not,  I cannot 
conceive  how  our  utmost  resources  of  landscape,  ship,  fish,  or 
inscription  can  compass  such  a subject  as,  for  instance,  Penelope 
and  her  suitors.  We  could  have  the  web  in  front  and  a label  to 
say  that  the  suitors  and  Penelope  are  behind  it,  certainly ; and 
Ulysses  in  the  Hall  of  Antenor  could  be  managed  in  similar 
fashion — an  outside  view  of  the  Hall  with  Ulysses  inside ; but 
no  Architecture  could  be  worked  into  Polyphemus,  on  any  terms  ! 
If  these  are  to  be  figure  pictures,  do  you  actually  believe,  in 
seriousness  and  sobriety,  in  the  possibility  of  getting  out  of  me, 
between  this  December  and  next  August,  seven  huge  pictures  and 
eight  large  ditto  containing  sufficient  indication  of  the  human 
form,  conventional  or  otherwise,  to  pass  muster  before  a Com- 
mittee of  P.  & O.  directors,  or  indeed  to  give  satisfaction  to  any 
human  creature,  however  uncritical  ? But  stop ! it  isn’t  even 
August — it  is  by  then  that  the  whole  work  has  to  be  finished,  and 
the  design  completed  and  shown  first  ! ! ! No,  clearly  you  nevei 
could  have  supposed  that  I could  do  these  designs  . . . and 
what  grounds  have  we  for  supposing  that  any  figure  work, 
properly  so  called,  can  be  executed  by  any  of  the  artists  we 
are  employing  ? ’ 

None  the  less,  he  eventually  agreed  to  undertake  the  wort 
conditionally  upon  a reasonable  extension  of  the  time  it  was  tc 


2X2 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


occupy,  although  the  worry  connected  with  carrying  through 
such  an  undertaking,  under  pressure,  and  at  a distance,  can  be 
dimly  imagined.  Six  large  ships  were  thus  decorated  by  De 
Morgan,  the  Arabic,  the  Palawan,  the  Sumatra,  the  China,  the 
Malta  and  the  Persia,  the  designs  being  prepared  by  him  in 
Florence  and  dispatched  thence  to  Fulham  by  means  of  the 
process  described  by  Miss  Morris. 

‘ My  pictures/  he  wrote  to  Ricardo,  ‘ represent  a voyage  of 
a ship  round  the  world  and  all  the  strange  dangers  she  meets 
with.  First,  she  runs  on  a rock — then  an  earthquake  shakes  her 
off — then  I propose  to  do  her  dangers  from  the  Sirens  and  the 
Sea  Serpent,  only  the  Sea  Serpent  will  also  be  attracted  by  the 
Sirens  and  eat  them — so  the  ship  will  get  off  scot-free.  If  the 
Directors  think  this  improbable,  we  must  rationalize  the  topic 
down  to  correctitude.  As  far  as  it  goes,  now,  there  is  no  physical 
impossibility  in  the  incidents — except  to  very  narrer-minded 
blokes. 

‘ The  big  pictures  are  China,  India,  the  Overland  Route,  Japan 
and  you  and  me  and  Collcutt  (of  the  P.  & O.)  tiger-hunting  when 
we  were  in  the  army,  in  the  Deccan  and  the  Punjaub.  The 
’ansum  one  is  me.  The  two  Islands  with  panthers  and  sich-like 
are,  for  instance,  Surinam  and  Krakatoa — anyhow,  nasty  places 
for  mariners  to  be  driven  on  shore  in — but  capital  sport  for  a 
rod  and  gun.  These  are  done  in  a hurry  and  the  geography  will 
have  to  be  sorter  sifted  out  and  arranged  before  we  proceed. 
The  blue  in  the  friezes  are  enough  to  freeze  the  souls  of  any  ship’s 
crew — Made  virtutibus — you  and  Fred  and  all/ 

‘ The  difficulty/  he  wrote  later,  ‘ has  been  to  know  what  to 
do  and  how  to  do  it,  especially  the  quasi-naturalisms  foreign  to 
the  nature  of  my  designs — because  their  nature  is  to  have  no 
nature.  The  last  panel  contains  : I.  The  ruin  of  a Corinthian 
temple ; 2.  Pentonville  Prison ; 3.  Fiesole,  and  in  the  middle- 
distance,  Eel-pie  Island — it’s  very  local/ 

Apart  from  this  jesting,  however,  the  designs  when  com- 
pleted were  exceptionally  fine,  and  also  appropriate,  as  De  Mor- 
gan had  conceived  the  idea  of  portraying  in  them  some  of  the 
cities  and  famous  places  which  the  respective  boats  were  destined 
to  pass  in  the  course  of  their  voyages. 

Thus  one  exhibited  a vista  of  the  white  cliffs  and  green  ver- 
dure of  old  England ; another,  a view  of  the  city  of  London 
intersected  by  the  river  Thames ; yet  another,  the  same  city  in 
olden  times  with  its  Abbey  and  Cathedral  depicted,  and  pictur- 
esque mediaeval  houses  fashioning  quaint,  crooked  streets.  A 
companion  panel,  in  marked  contrast,  showed  a scene  of  devas- 
tation in  a distant  part  of  the  globe,  with  Nature  in  angry  mood 
beneath  a sullen  sky  ; a storm  with  lightning  flashing  and  towers 
falling,  volcanoes  smoking  redly,  and,  in  the  lurid  glow,  a back- 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


213 

ground  of  purple  mountains.  Again,  there  were  scenes  of  some 
smiling  tropical  land,  with  fruit-laden  trees,  tapering  palms  and 
prowling  beasts ; and  there  were  realistic  landscapes  typical  of 
different  countries — China,  depicted  with  wooded  hills  and 
yellow-sailed  junks  ; Japan,  represented  by  a scene  with  Fuji- 
yama in  the  background,  and  in  the  foreground  storks  and  fisher 
boats  drawn  with  a clever  suggestion  of  Japanese  Art ; India, 
represented  by  the  hunting  expedition  aforesaid,  in  which  grey 
elephants  and  golden  tigers  formed  a pattern  instinct  with  life. 
Infinite  in  beauty  and  variety,  the  scenes  were  at  once  original 
and  realistic  ; and  it  is  sad  to  reflect  that  all  of  these  great  ships 
with  their  unique  decoration,  as  well  as  the  Imperial  yacht 
Livadia,  now  lie  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Meantime,  in  tragic  contrast  to  the  brighter  side  of  his  life 
in  Florence,  De  Morgan  was  discovering  more  and  more  that 
endless  vexations  and  difficulties  were  entailed  by  his  absence 
from  Fulham,  for  which  he  had  been  only  partially  prepared. 
In  the  first  place,  the  posts  to  and  from  Italy  were  erratic  ; im- 
portant correspondence  was  delayed  in  transit,  or  a letter  sent 
cancelling  previous  instructions  arrived  before  the  one  which  it 
was  intended  to  revoke,  thus  creating  confusion  in  the  mind  of 
the  recipient.  To  endeavour  to  cope  at  all  by  post  with  the 
manifold  complications  of  a business,  the  success  or  failure  of 
which  hung  eternally  on  the  hazard  of  the  die,  required  almost 
superhuman  effort.  The  chemical  problems  incessantly  needing 
elucidation,  the  unaccountable  vagaries  of  machinery  and  con- 
sequently of  firing,  the  endless  experiments  in  fresh  methods  of 
production — all  demanded  an  exhaustive  and  personal  super- 
vision for  which  correspondence  was  an  ineffectual  substitute. 
Added  to  this,  there  were  the  complications  of  accounts  to  be 
balanced  between  London  and  Italy,  and  minor  matters  which 
required  tactful  adjustment  amongst  his  employees  who,  besides 
petty  differences  which  occasionally  arose  between  them,  suffered 
materially  from  the  loss  of  his  creative  force  and  the  personal 
magnetism  of  his  presence  now  withdrawn  during  many  months, 
so  that  something  of  the  old  vitality  passed  for  ever  from  their 
labour. 

' I am  as  certain  as  I can  be  of  anything  human/  he  remarks, 
' that  lies,  Passenger,  Ewbank,  Dring — all  of  them  will  work 
well  in  proportion  as  they  feel  in  direct  communication  with  me. 
And  this  even  at  the  risk  of  postal  delays  creating  a ripple  of 
seeming  contradiction  between  some  things  in  two  of  my  letters/ 
But  after  one  of  the  annual  transitions  to  Florence  we  find  him 
complaining  to  a friend  : ‘ The  difficulty  of  the  position  forced 
upon  me  by  these  alternations  of  England  and  Italy  is  almost 
insuperable.  I was  during  the  last  few  weeks  before  leaving 
England  completely  bewildered  by  the  demands  of  business,  the 


214  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

desire  to  see  what  I could  of  my  friends,  and  the  inability  to 
achieve  satisfaction  in  either  point  owing  to  physical  exhaustion 
always  supervening  at  unfavourable  moments,  just  when  I 
wanted  to  rush  here  or  gallop  there  to  see  after  this,  that  or  the 
other.  We  started  with  everything  undone  and  incomplete.  . . . 
A new  spine  and  new  eyes  would  be  welcome.  . . . Forgive  my 
apparent  extinction  for  long  periods  ! I always  seem  to  be 
somewhere  else.  This  constant  occupation  swallows  me  up.’ 

The  story  of  the  years  which  followed  is  a sorry  tale  of  ever- 
increasing  anxiety  and  of  a brave  spirit  battling  against  odds 
which  were  overwhelming.  Only  those  who  have  read  De 
Morgan’s  private  correspondence  during  this  period  can  realize 
the  mental  strain  which  he  endured,  and  can  do  credit  to  the 
unvarying  patience  and  the  unfailing,  if  pathetic,  humour  with 
which  he  met  and  mocked  the  4 slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous 
fortune/  There  is  a peculiar  sadness  in  the  thought  that  a man 
of  his  temperament,  so  full  of  contentment,  so  easily  rendered 
happy,  with  gifts  which  added  a glory  to  existence,  was  destined 
to  have  all  his  days  poisoned  by  sordid  cares.  Yet  so  it  was. 
Handicapped  thus  by  delicate  health,  handicapped  by  the 
gnawing  lack  of  capital  and  the  exile  which  was  proving  fatal 
to  his  enterprise,  he  fought  desperately  for  an  Art  which  to  him 
was  dearer  than  life  itself ; but  always  with  the  grim  knowledge 
that  the  odds  against  him  were  ever  increasing. 

Still  more,  in  England,  the  effect  of  his  absence  was  to  deepen 
an  impression  amongst  his  employees,  to  which  previous  tradi- 
tion had  long  inured  them,  that  the  artistic,  and  not  the  financial, 
success  of  the  undertaking  was  the  sole  aim  which  they  must 
keep  in  view.  That  the  existence  of  the  one  was  dependent  upon 
the  other — that  the  retail  price  of  their  output  must  at  least 
balance  the  cost  of  production  if  the  work  was  to  continue,  was 
a point  of  view  which,  more  and  more,  was  lost  sight  of.  An 
instance  of  this  may  be  mentioned.  A visitor  who  went  to  the 
factory  in  De  Morgan  Road  on  one  occasion  asked  the  price  of 
a giant  vase  of  gorgeous  hue.  4 £35  is  the  price  we  put  on  it/ 
replied  the  Manager,  4 but  ’ — with  some  amusement — 4 I doubt 
if  anyone  will  give  it  ! and  it  cost  us  £ 80  to  produce  ! * Some 
lovely  pots  were  exhibited,  and  the  visitor  again  inquired  the 
price.  ‘ We  don’t  want  to  sell  these/  was  the  reply,  4 we  could 
have  sold  them  over  and  over  again,  but  we  like  to  keep  a bit 
of  good  stuff  to  show  Mr.  De  Morgan  when  he  comes  home  ! ’ 
The  visitor’s  comment  was  ‘ C’est  magnifique — mais  ce  n’est  pas 
\e  commerce  ! * 

Moreover,  in  the  standard  of  artistic  excellence  a less  high 
<evel  was  attained ; and  of  this  De  Morgan  became  painfully 
iware.  4 As  for  myself/  he  wrote,  4 I am  chiefly  vexed  at  the 
msettled  conditions  of  my  life  making  it  impossible  for  me  to 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


215 

contribute  any  sort  of  animation  to  the  work,  such  as  I formerly 
looked  upon  as  the  essence  of  the  whole  thing.  . . . Investigation 
and  experiment  seem  now  to  belong  to  a remote  and  happy  past, 
and  the  business  itself  to  have  settled  down,  as  far  as  “ Art  ” 
goes,  into  the  incessant  reproduction  of  patterns  drawn  by  me  a 
quarter  of  a century  since.  . . . Meanwhile  it  is  the  big  idle 
capital  that  gobbles  up  the  profit — the  factory  might  be  christened 
Jonah’s  whale  ! ' ‘ The  tradition  at  Fulham,’  wrote  Halsey 

Ricardo  at  length,  * as  it  has  developed  in  consequence  of  De 
Morgan’s  bad  health  and  necessary  absence,  is  not  now  a good 
one ; and  there  is  no  one,  there  can  be  no  one,  who  can  pull  it 
straight.  The  standard  of  efficiency  has  settled  down  into  a 
dull  undesired  excellence ; the  chaps  have  grown  to  think  that 
conscientious  industry  is  the  whole  duty  of  man.  It  is  impossible 
to  explain  to  them  that  the  justification  of  handiwork  demands 
something  more  than  this ; and  it  is  impossible,  if  they  don’t 
see  it,  either  to  quarrel  with  them  or  to  blame  them.  But  the 
result  has  lost  the  freshness  and  companionableness  that  D.  M.’s 
own  pottery  used  to  have.’  In  certain  instances,  not  only  was 
De  Morgan’s  original  grace  of  line  and  fancy  lost  sight  of,  but 
occasionally,  when  one  of  his  designs  was  introduced  as  a central 
idea,  a surrounding  decoration  of  more  conventional  type  was 
added  by  painters,  who  were  even  known,  for  lack  of  initiative, 
to  employ  some  commonplace  pattern  which  they  borrowed  from 
an  ordinary  wall-paper  ! While  realizing  this,  Mr.  Ricardo,  owing 
to  the  pressure  of  his  work  as  an  architect,  was  only  able  to 
bestow  on  the  factory  a very  divided  attention ; and  in  1897, 
Mr.  Reginald  Blunt  was  asked  by  De  Morgan  to  supplement  the 
essential  supervision. 

* I was  invited,’  relates  Mr.  Blunt,  * for  the  next  three  winters, 
to  supervise  the  doings  at  De  Morgan  Road  as  General  Manager 
and  “ Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  ”...  the  arrangement 
helped  to  make  possible  the  continuance  of  the  factory,  though 
the  Chancellor’s  Treasury  suffered  from  chronic  depletion  ; but 
the  enforced  absence  of  its  chief  was,  of  course,  a severe  handicap. 
The  whole  of  the  making  and  the  firing  of  the  pots,  and  the  decora- 
tion of  the  latter  had  naturally  to  be  done  in  Fulham,  as  well  as  the 
scheming  of  the  orders,  the  building  and  repairs  of  the  kilns  and 
machinery,  and  the  endless  minutiae  of  works  management.  . . . 

‘ I reported  our  doings  and  difficulties  fully  to  Florence  every 
week  . . . and  through  all  its  worries  and  anxieties  it  was  made 
delightful  by  De  Morgan’s  unfailing  kindness  and  by  the  charm 
and  patience  and  all-pervading  humour  of  his  long  weekly 
letters.  ...  It  is,  in  some  ways,  a melancholy,  though  never 
depressing  or  despondent,  record ; for  monetary  difficulties, 
chiefly  due  to  the  insufficiency  of  the  initial  capital,  run  like  a 
black  thread — or  rather,  perhaps  a hampering  barbed  wire 


2x6 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


entanglement — through  every  page  of  it.  Yet  there  is  so  much 
of  pure  jollity,  of  gentle  humour  and  of  genuine  human  kindli- 
ness in  these  natural  and  often  hastily  scrawled  letters  . . . 
[that  they]  help  to  give  a little  further  insight  into  an  inspiring, 
loveable,  and  most  sympathetic  character/ 

At  first  the  letters,  from  which  it  is  possible  to  give  only  a 
few  random  extracts,  dealt  with  technicalities  of  the  work  which, 
even  when  not  of  interest  to  the  general  reader,  serve  to  convey 
some  faint  impression  of  the  range  of  De  Morgan’s  activities. 

William  De  Morgan  to  Reginald  Blunt. 

* Lungo  il  Mugnone. 

' Nov.  14 th,  ’97. 

* From  what  lies  says  about  the  big  kiln,  I imagine  that  if  the  floor 
holds  out  long  enough  he  will  get  it  into  complete  working  order,  and  run 
up  the  stock  of  plain  tiles  to  cheapening  point,  which  I look  to  as  to  a 
Millennium — clay  in  barges  of  80  tons  from  Stourbridge — a mill  turning 
out  5 tons  per  diem  of  body — all  the  rooms  full  of  workers,  and  18/-  a 
yard  for  turquoise  tiles — that’s  my  idea  of  things.  As  for  there  being 
no  market,  that’s  simple  nonsense — There’s  the  whole  wide  world,  and 
what  can  one  want  more  ! 

‘ I have  not  heard  that  the  ship  panels  have  reached  safely  but  I 
presume  that  they  have  done  so  as  I have  not  heard  to  the  contrary. 

* Are  you  making  use  of  the  revolving  grate  at  the  factory  ? [One  of 
De  Morgan’s  own  inventions.]  I mean  has  it  been  put  in  so  as  to  revolve 
properly,  and  illustrate  its  smoke-consuming  properties  with  only  Wallsend 
coal  ? If  not,  please  make  Fred  lies  put  it  on  a pivot  so  as  to  spin  freely, 
see  that  the  chimney  is  clear,  and  give  it  a trial.  If  you  like  the  looks  of 
it,  we  could  have  a decent -looking  casting  made  for  the  fire-bar  portion, 
and  have  it  fitted  in  the  front  room  in  Great  Marlborough  Street,  where 
it  would  go  in  very  well.  We  could  get  a lot  of  people  in  to  see  it,  under 
the  pretext  of  curing  the  smoke,  and  then  sell  them  tiles  ! (A  story  about 
Dr.  Johnson  in  a boat  on  the  river  naturally  occurs  to  one.) 

* Re  the  red  tiles,  the  differences  are  entirely  due  to  firing — the  thick- 
ness of  the  colour  laid  has  no  effect.  . . 

* Nov.  30 th,  1897. 

* Re  the  lustre — of  this  I am  certain,  that  every  glaze  that  is  susceptible 
at  all  can  giveTa  good  lustre.  Because  on  a six  inch  tile  every  now  and 
again  one  always  gets  a gradation  passing  from  mere  red  to  copper  metal, 
such  as  you  might  rightly  object  to. 

* But  between  the  extremes  there  is  always  the  red  reflection  from  a 
different  local  tint,  which  is  usually  at  its  best  when  the  local  tint  is  brown. 
The  English  potteries,  where  they  make  lustre,  bring  their  results  too  much 
to  mere  blood-red  and  copper  shine. 

‘ I should  like  very  much  next  spring  to  have  a regular  campaign  at 
lustre.  Tell  me  if  you  think  circumstances  would  allow  of  building  the 
new  kiln  and  I will  send  the  drawing.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  gas 
kiln  is  the  best  form  of  lustre  kiln,  it  is  so  manageable. 

‘ Re  price  of  pots — [this  in  humorous  answer  to  a request  from  Mr. 
Blunt  respecting  a basis  for  prices] — I know  there  is  some  way  of  doing 
this.  Multiply  the  height  in  inches  by  the  largest  diameter  in  centimetres 
and  divide  by  the  number  of  hours  employed.  Multiply  this  result  by  the 


Barrel-shaped  Vase,  with  Domed  Cover 
Bequeathed  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  to  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum 
It  is  in  shades  of  purple,  gold  and  silver  lustre,  with  a pattern  of  vines.  It  was 
one  of  the  last  vases  produced  by  De  Morgan  before  he  closed  the  factory,  and  he 
is  depicted  clasping  it  in  the  portrait  by  his  wife  (see  page  316). 

Height,  6%.  Diameter,  4 y2  inches. 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD  217 


logarithm  of  the  number  of  shillings  per  week,  and  it  will  give  the  price 
of  the  pot  in  halfpence — • But  who  shall  discover  it  ? 

* The  only  thing  is  to  make  trials  and  see. 

‘ Suppose  we  try  the  contents  of  the  pot  as  a gauge — say  a shilling  an 
ounce  for  decorated  pots  ? None  of  our  pots  contains  less  than  5 or  6 ozs. 
of  waaser,  and  none  is  priced  under  five  or  six  shillings.  I can’t  remember 
how  many  ounces  go  to  a pint,  so  I can  carry  the  inquiry  no  further. 
But  see  Ewbank  and  get  him  to  make  a record  of  how  much  a selection  of 
pots  contains  per  head  and  what  the  present  marked  price  is.  Perhaps 
it  would  be  fair  to  consider  the  bulk  of  the  pot  as  a factor.  This  could  be 
done  by  weighing  it  dry  and  calculating  the  bulk  of  an  equal  bulk  of  water 
from  the  relative  sp.  grs.  and  adding  it  to  the  contents.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  wise  to  let  it  alone  ! 

* I want  chemistry  to  tell  me  whether  lead  tin  and  aluminium  would 

give  a good  white  glaze,  analogous  to  the  lead  and  tin  used  now  for 
majolica — but  harder.  Worm  this  out  of  the  Polytechnic.  . . . 

* Later. 

* I am  so  horribly  stupid  in  taking  for  granted  that  others  know  things 
because  I do  ! — I say  to  myself  “ Why  I know  that  surely  he  must  ? In 
the  case  of  the  tin  and  aluminiums  I was  taking  for  granted  that  at  the 
Polytechnic  the  commercial  preparation  of  Calcine,  or  combined  oxides 
of  lead  and  tin,  would  be  in  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings.  It  is 
the  only  known  method  (recent  discoveries  perhaps  apart)  of  causing  the 
suspension  of  the  white  tin  oxide  in  glass  undissolved.  It  is  like  mechanical 
suspension  in  water,  I take  it.  And  the  white  enamels  and  Majolicas  lack 
the  hardness  of  crystalline  glaze  accordingly.  Calcine  is  prepared  by 
raking  the  scum  off  melted  lead  and  tin.  This  scum  is  the  calcine  oxides 
which  are  true  compounds  or  not  according  to  the  proportions  of  the 
metals. 

‘ Xmas.  1897. 

‘ It  certainly  speaks  well  for  our  perishing  trade  that  £58  worth  of 
goods  were  sold  last  week,  and  that  we  are  certain  of  purchasers  for  all 
those  marked  urgent  in  your  list  and  Ewbank’ s.  It  seems  to  me  that 
my  view  is  the  correct  one — that  the  poor  trade  is  famished  not  for  want 
of  customers,  but  stock.  . . . Ewbank  tells  me  that  the  demand  far 
exceeds  the  supply.  . . . 

* What  we  have  to  do  is  to  try  the  experiment  (for  the  first  time)  of 
reducing  our  production  cost  by  multiplying  our  output,  and  offering  it 
in  the  market  at  a reasonable  commercial  profit.  When  this  has  been 
tried  and  failed,  we  will  talk  over  the  desirability  of  giving  up  the  fruits 
of  all  the  labour  and  thought  I have  given  during  twenty  years  past  to 
completing  the  process. 

* I have  been  very  bad  with  sciatica — no  possible  attitude  for  sleep. 
But  I’m  better  now — the  dry  weather  is  setting  me  up. 

‘ The  merriest  of  Xmases  to  all — and  as  little  fog  as  may  be  ! 

‘ Jan.  and  1898. 

* I’m  glad  there  is  not  a bill  before  Parliament  to  make  it  penal  not 
to  be  able  to  reconcile  accounts  of  kilns.  Here  are  yours,  Ricardo’ s and 
lies’ s,  which  I cannot  find  belong  to  different  kilns. 


Yours.  Dec.  30  th. 
We  had  a lot  of  salted 
and  pock-marked  tiles 
out  of  the  last  kiln  or 
two,  and  a lot  of  blis- 
tered ones  from  a pre- 
vious kiln. 


Ricardo’s.  Dec.  18th. 
We  are  in  a vein  of  bad 
luck  at  the  factory, 
blisters,  or  salt,  have 
damaged — -very  badly 
-—more  than  J of  the  last 
glaze  kiln. 


lies’ s.  Dec.  10th.  Big 
glaze  kiln  of  plain 
colours.  It  was  fired 
very  nicely  indeed — ■ 
quite  free  from  salt. 
Dec.  15th.  Small  glaze 
kiln  of  painted  pottery 
very  good. 


218  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

* I incline  to  the  opinion  that  your  intermediate  statement  is  the 
safest  to  lean  on.  Re  blisters — I have  never  been  able  to  trace  these 
to  anything  but  rather  too  quick  a heat  at  first.  It  is  just  the  first  flare 
of  the  wood  that  does  it.  When  they  have  dried  very  slowly  they  are 
liable  to  it,  I believe. 

' Jan.  8th. 

1 The  blistering  of  tiles  seems  to  break  out  in  my  absence  always.  . . . 
It  is  due  to  a spontaneous  separation  of  colour  from  ground  or  paint  from 
paper,  it  is  a thousand  to  one  it  depends  on  the  warmth  of  combination 
in  the  silicate.  If  so,  tiles  warmed  to  over  boiling  point  immediately 
after  laying  ought  to  show  the  defect  very  much  less  than  those  that  dry 
gradually.  Try  two  halves  of  one  lot  each  way. 

* Jan.  14 th. 

* The  vicious  appearance  of  so  much  modern  earthenware  is  due  to  the 
dry  lathing  much  more  than  to  the  tint  of  the  body — and  none  can  vary 
tints  ad  lib  by  solution  of  colouring  salts.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  most 
of  the  Wenger  bodies  have  a little  cobalt  in  them,  like  washer- woman’s 
blue  in  whitewash,  where  only  yellow  ochre  ought  to  reign  supreme. 

* I shall  be  sending  this  week  the  Daisy  and  Anemone  patterns  for  the 
great  Rothschild.  I understand  he  wants  turquoise  blue  to  be  turquoise 
blue  and  not  green,  like  Ally  Sloper’s  boy  who  wanted  tea  for  tea — and 
declined  whiskey. 

* If  the  Devil  don’t  take  the  Fulham  Vestry,  he  don’t  deserve  to  be 
devil  no  longer,  as  the  Lincolnshire  farmer  said. 

* At  present  the  undigested  errors  of  our  early  system,  that  of  baiting 
for  small  orders  with  samples,  lies  heavy  on  our  commercial  stomach. 

‘ Going  in  for  plain  tiles  on  a large  scale  at  low  prices  is  my  idea,  and 
has  been  ever  since  we  built  a large  factory  in  ’88  expressly  for  that  very 
purpose. 

‘ Clean  and  prompt  firing,  and  low  prices,  are  the  solution  of  our 
difficulties.  . . . 

‘ No  kiln  can  possibly  have  too  much  draught.  Whatever  the  local 
heat  of  the  fires  may  be,  it  can  be  tempered  by  admission  of  air  before  it 
enters  the  flues,  and  an  excess  of  atmosphere  in  the  flue  is  good  and  sulphur- 
destroying. 

‘ I believe  many  of  these  colour  troubles  would  be  solved  if  we  could 
have  wood  kilns  instead  of  coke  or  coal.  If  I had  unlimited  resources  I 
would  build  one  straight  away.  And  the  wear  and  tear  of  a wood  kiln 
would  be  less,  owing  to  the  formation  of  less  clinkers. 

‘ The  presence  of  the  green  tiles  does  endanger  the  blue  ones  without 
a doubt,  but  we  can  always  have  a special  kiln  for  each  colour.  I have 
never  thought  the  amount  of  harm  done  by  the  green  to  the  blue  was 
enough  to  make  special  efforts  against  it  needful.  It  certainly  is  not  the 
cause  of  the  unexplained  variations  in  the  turquoise,  as  we  can  get  these 
in  kilns  with  no  green. 

‘ Feb.  3rd,  1898. 

* I discern  in  the  Pot  [one  which  had  been  sent  out  for  his  inspection] 
a confirmation  of  what  I have  inferred  and  been  hoping,  viz.  ; that  the 
lustre  kiln  has  not  been  behaving  very  badly.  The  present  defects  of 
our  lustre  are  not  in  the  process,  but  in  the  ground — I do  not  know  how  it 
is,  but  no  really  good  thing  ever  comes  from  the  Potteries — and  it’s  stranger 
in  the  case  of  Wenger’s  enamel  than  in  other  things,  because  I fancy 
Wenger  doesn’t  weng  it  at  all,  but  gets  it  from  some  foreign  Wenger.  If 
it’s  made  in  Germany,  that  of  course  would  account  for  it,  as  all  German 
excellence  goes  into  lead  pencils. 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


219 

f March  1st. 

* Re  your  inquiries  about  lustre  process — (1)  The  test  pieces  ought  to 
be  at  their  best  at  the  moment  of  stopping.  But  if  stopped  too  soon  the 
first  lustre  (which  is  the  best)  burns  out,  and  remains  pale.  There  is  one 
moment  (if  one  could  always  spot  it)  when  it  would  be  best  to  cool  the  muffle 
as  suddenly  as  possible.  Weak  lustres,  long  fired,  give  the  best  chance 
for  deliberation,  whereas  strong  lustres  fire  quick,  but  jump  at  the  end. 

* (2)  My  experience  is  that  the  strength  depends  on  the  strength  of  the 
mixture,  not  on  the  thickness.  One  sees  no  brush-streak  in  the  colour, 
or  rarely.  Nevertheless  there  is  a thinness  at  which  quantity  tells,  only 
within  its  limits  you  get  little  lustre,  toned  red. 

‘ (3)  The  more  experiments  the  better  ...  I should  like  to  have  a 
lustre  campaign  this  summer,  if  not  worried  into  my  grave. 

* March  17  th. 

1 I hope  the  weak  lustres  have  gone  or  will  go  well.  All  that’s  necessary 
for  their  success  is  a continued  low  temperature  and  much  longer  firing. 

* Bismuth  makes  very  good  and  very  soft  glazes,  but  they  are  dear. 
I never  investigated  them  properly. 

‘ I don’t  like  the  red  on  the  pottery  tiles,  nor  on  any  hand  glaze.  It’s 
too  violent  and  butcherous.  But  a glaze  containing  some  soda — say  the 
materials  of  the  hand  glaze  we  use  on  the  tiles  mixed  with  tin  calcine  might 
do  very  well. 

‘ March  29,  ’98. 

* The  colour  and  quality  of  lustre  are  absolutely  due  to  firing  and  not 
a bit  to  thickness  of  colour.  If  you  paint  several  thicknesses  of  colour  on 
one  tile  you  will  find  no  practical  difference  between  any  two  above  the 
thickness  of  a mere  transparent  wash,  and  this  will  be  motley  and  weak. 

‘ If  the  new  kiln  salts,  it  will  (according  to  my  religion)  be  that  the 
fires  have  been  too  heavily  stoked.  Small  bright  fires  are  the  game. 

‘ Are  the  small-pox  marks  over  or  under  the  colour  ? If  under,  just 
make  a trial  of  dusting  black  lead  over  the  surface  of  the  paper  before 
sticking.  Why  the  ordinary  tiles  should  play  tricks  I can’t  imagine,  if  the 
Fulham  ones  don’t,  for  I can’t  find  that  there  is  any  difference  in  the  method. 

‘ I am  sending  a frieze  of  Cherubs’  heads,  which  must  have  a harder 
glaze  than  usual,  and  thin,  or  they’ll  all  float  up.  . . . They  are  painted 
in  colour  mixed  with  pure  gum  Arabic.  ...  I thought  I couldn’t  work 
on  the  tiles  now  because  of  old  age — but  it  was  the  Dextrine  in  the  gum. 
I expect  it  will  turn  out  that,  what  with  retarded  work  and  blistering, 
this  alone  has  cost  us  hundreds  of  pounds. 

' March  30 th. 

* I don’t  understand  the  disappearance  of  the  luck  in  Glazes.  Last 
year  lies  did  very  well.  However,  it  is  much  the  same  at  Cantagalli. 
When  he  goes  the  lustre  deteriorates.’ 

Gradually  the  letters  wax  more  despondent.  ‘ I am  glad  you 
take  such  a sanguine  view  of  the  work/  he  writes,  ‘ my  view  is 
—sanguinary  ! I observe  that  our  tiles  now  cost  us  more  to 
make  them  than  our  calculated  expense  in  Chelsea  20  years 
ago.  Ewbank's  reports  look  very  poor  as  to  finances.  Don't 
soften  anything.  Show  it  me  at  its  worst.  I fear  you  are  having 
a dreary  time,  but  “ just  now  ” is  always  dreary  ! * 

In  another  letter  he  writes : ‘ What  I said  about  goodwill  was 
only  a way  of  putting  the  unpleasant  fact  that  if  it  or  something 
isn't  there  to  represent  it  we  have  lost  £3.112.  Of  course  we 
have  ! • . you  see  we  never  have  had  a system  of  accounts, 


220 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


with  mine  or  anyone  else’s/  Again,  he  propounds  an  idea,  the 
simplicity  of  which  is  evidently  unconscious : ‘ As  I shall  have 
nothing  coming  in  from  the  home  factory,  and  I am  nearly 
cleaned  out,  I am  endeavouring  to  run  the  concern  here  [in  Florence ] 
at  a small  profit,  with  a view  to  making  something  for  myself  ! ’ 
This  is  obviously  put  forward  as  a notion  commendable  for  its 
novelty.  In  one  of  his  communications  to  Halsey  Ricardo  about 
this  date,  he  further  remarks  with  a humour  which  probably 
failed  to  appeal  to  its  recipient,  ‘ I am  sure  you  will  be  surprised 
and  pleased  to  learn  that  I owe  you  a sum  of  money,  even  as  I 
am  surprised  and  disgusted.  Rut  then  your  delight  will  be 
qualified  by  hearing  that  I cannot  pay ! ’ 

Again  in  the  spring  of  1908  we  find  him  writing  tragically  : — 

‘ I have  done  my  feeble  best,  but  genius  alone  could  have  handled  the 
position — or  capital  ! Neither  was  forthcoming. 

‘ For  the  moment,  the  men  are  going  on  again  heroically  on  the  terms 
that  I am  to  send  money  when  I get  it — I wish  I may  get  it.  It  is  all 
such  a great  pity,  for  we  had  lately  got  over  some  bad  difficulties  in  pro- 
cess, notably  coke-sulphuring  and  slow  tile -colouring.  I shall  go  on 
until  absolutely  strangled  off,  and  execution  threatened.  . . . 

‘ Browning  says,  “ Sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave.” 
I wonder  if  effrontery  is  a good  substitute  for  courage  in  this  connexion, 
as  if  so  I certainly  deserve  a good  turn  from  Fate  ! ’ 

The  transition  to  London  in  the  summer  of  1898  did  not  tend 
to  raise  his  spirits,  judging  by  the  unwonted  note  of  melancholy 
in  the  following  letter  : — 

William  De  Morgan  to  Mrs.  Morris . 

* Sept.  19,  ’98, 

‘ Chelsea. 

* My  dear  Mrs.  Morris, — 

‘ It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  send  me  the  little  book.  If  I am  to 
live  to  be  my  father’s  age  when  he  died,  I have  still  ten  per  cent,  of  my 
life  before  me,  and  in  that  time  my  memories  of  the  nine-tenths  gone 
before  must  needs  make  a great  deal  of  whatever  is  happy  and  satisfactory 
in  them.  For  indeed  it  does  seem  to  me  now  that  the  most  part  of  what 
made  me  look  forward  to  coming  back  each  spring  to  England  has  disap- 
peared. 

* The  great,  fortunate  friendships  of  my  life,  of  which  we  know,  have 
left  gaps  nothing  can  fill  up,  especially  as  our  long  absences  each  winter 
cut  me  away,  more  than  most,  from  our  fellow  creatures  in  this  country. 

f I should  have  liked  to  have  come  to  see  you  in  the  country  again,  at 
the  old  place — but  really  the  way  long  railway  journeys  knock  me  about, 
and  the  stress  of  steering  my  perplexing  business  combined,  never  let 
me  go  so  far  as  to  entertain  the  idea  or  to  find  out  whether  I was,  or  was 
not,  a bit  cowardly  about  coming.  The  journey  from  my  brother-in-law 
in  Devon  made  my  spinal  column  feel  very  unlike  Cleopatra’s  needle  ! 
and  I was  as  it  were  obliged  to  make  myself  promise  not  to  do  so  any 
more.  None  the  less  I bike  down  to  the  factory  daily,  to  hear  which  of 
our  debtors  has  gone  bankrupt,  and  what  goods  have  been  returned  on 
our  hands  with  scorn  and  loathing — that’s  business  ! 

‘ My  love  to  you  and  Jenny  and  the  old  house.  I wish  we  might  look 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


221 


forward  to  seeing  you  in  Florence  some  day — (that  reads  like  an  invitation 
— but  lor  bless  you,  we  never  have  room  to  swing  a cat  !)  ’ 

As  the  shadows  deepened  round  the  doomed  factory,  the 
threatened  retirement  of  Halsey  Ricardo  from  the  business  and 
the  consequent  disintegration  of  a portion  of  the  capital  which 
financed  it  made  disaster  imminent.  Even  at  that  juncture  it 
was  pointed  out  to  De  Morgan  that  if  he  could  remain  for  one 
winter  in  England  this  would  probably  turn  the  tide  in  his 
ebbing  fortunes ; but  his  wife  was  obdurate.  Ruin  stared  her 
in  the  face,  but  that  prospect  was  less  to  be  dreaded  than  the 
alternative  which  confronted  her.  * I would  rather  lose  every 
penny  I possess/  she  wrote  decisively  with  her  usual  selflessness, 
‘ than,  in  view  of  the  doctor’s  verdict,  that  William  should  run 
the  risk  of  one  extra  month  in  England.’ 

During  the  autumn  which  followed,  the  Duke  of  Bedford 
ordered  panels  for  the  Woburn  dairy,  and  these  De  Morgan 
designed  out  in  Florence  with  a frieze  in  gay-hued  parrots  upon 
a pale  blue  ground.  ' I have  just  completed  a lovely  droring  for 
the  Duke’s  dairy  based  on  our  falcon  panel,’  he  writes.  ‘ It  will 
keep  the  factory  going  for  a whole  month,  but  will  take  three 
months  to  execute.  I have  my  doubts  of  that’s  paying— I have  my 
doubts  of  all  accepted  orders  paying — even  the  biggest.’  In  the 
following  January,  1899,  he  says  : ‘ The  Bedford  tiles  are  decided 
on  and  the  sketch  will  be  returned  to  the  factory.  I am  going 
to  have  it  out  here  to  make  a new  cartoon  from,  and  then  mean 
to  send  it  back  to  Fred  Passenger  to  be  executed  in  London.  I 
am  dosing  the  chaps  out  here  with  more  than  enough  new  work. 
I am  at  work  on  big  figures  and  various  sundries  at  this  moment.’ 
And  he  concludes  with  a recrudescence  of  hope.  ‘ Judging  from 
the  various  reports,  things  must  be  going  on  well  in  production. 
It’s  good  to  hear  of  any  lustre  pots  turning  out  well ; ’ while  he 
adds  with  undiminished  enthusiasm  : ‘ I have  endless  chemical 
problems  for  solution,  which  I have  puzzled  at  since  1873.’ 

When  the  time  came  round  once  more  for  his  annual  migra- 
tion to  England,  moreover,  he  wrote  fuH  of  renewed  vigour. 

‘ Levanto,  Riviera  Ligure, 

‘ Ap.  30 th. 

* Our  boat  says  it  sails  from  Genoa  at  noon  on  Wednesday.  We  are 
here  because  we  thought  three  or  four  days’  holiday  by  the  way  would 
do  us  both  good.  We  have  hit  on  a place  of  most  amazing  loveliness, 
and  a very  good  hotel.  I am  simply  eating  and  sleeping  and  taking  long 
walks — so  I shall  (I  hope)  be  in  a state  of  diabolical  activity  and  aptitude 
when  I arrive  in  London  on  the  10th  or  nth.  I shall  need  to  be,  for  the 
task  I propose  to  myself  is  no  less  than  that  of  forcing  the  concern  into  a 
paying  form.  I am  satisfied  that  we  can  do  it,  from  the  fact  that  it  has 
done  no  worse  than  it  has  in  these  last  shopless  months.  We  shall  see  ! 
If  we  are  to  have  a financial  collapse  outright,  I hope  it  will  bring  itself 
home  to  us  immediately — the  sooner  it  happens  the  more  time  I shall 
have  in  England  to  get  straight  again. 


222 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


* Meanwhile  I hope  to  have  credited  the  Bay  of  Biscay  with  the  smallest 
possible  investments  on  my  part.  A rivederci  ! ’ 

But  the  summer  which  lay  before  him  proved  a yet  more 
disheartening  battle  against  overwhelming  complications.  The 
constant  payments  at  an  ever-increasing  loss  were  a drain  on  his 
resources  which  absorbed  all  his  available  funds.  Again  and 
again  comes  the  plaint : ‘ Our  poor  little  factory  is  starved  not 
for  the  lack  of  customers  but  of  output.  . . . The  world  would 
swallow  up  ten  times  our  present  output  if  we  were  in  contact 
with  it — but  we  cant  produce  ! ’ For  the  difficulties  with  which 
he  had  to  contend  moved  eternally  in  a vicious  circle.  To 
financial  success,  production  on  a large  scale  was  first  impera- 
tive, yet  to  produce  on  a large  scale  first  necessitated  iinancial 
prosperity.  ‘ All  one  wants,’  he  wrote  pithily,  ‘ is  cash  to  save 
cash.  None  can  afford  the  luxury  of  economy  but  the  capitalist.’ 
Yet  he  adds  as  a sorry  jest,  ‘ I have  no  intention  of  leaving  the 
concern  till  the  concern  leaves  me — though  I do  not  go  as  an 
asset  with  it  ! ’ The  final  retirement  of  Halsey  Ricardo,  the 
partnership  with  whom  was  dissolved  in  January,  1899,  seemed 
to  make  inevitable  its  extinction.  None  the  less,  to  abandon  his 
life-work  when,  after  years  of  arduous  struggle,  he  had  attained 
to  an  undreamed  of  artistic  excellence,  was  to  De  Morgan  a 
conclusion  from  which  thought  turned  aside.  In  truth,  it  is 
pathetic  to  reflect  that,  at  this  crisis,  his  own  powers  were  at 
their  zenith — powers  of  invention  and  achievement,  wrung  out 
of  the  accumulated  knowledge  and  labour  of  years.  ‘ While  the 
pottery  failed  financially,’  wrote  his  wife  later,  ‘ the  last  pieces 
of  lustre-ware  he  produced  in  the  dying  factory  were  the  best 
he  had  ever  done.’ 

Nevertheless,  when  some  one  ventured  to  condole  with  her  on 
the  incessant  anxiety  she  was  enduring,  and  further  declaimed 
against  the  unsatisfactoriness  of  life  in  general,  Evelyn  parried 
the  proffered  sympathy  in  typical  fashion.  On  a post  card  she 
wrote : — 

‘ Look-a-here,  Mary  Anne, 

You  stop  your  complainin’. 

I know  that  it’s  rainin’ 

As  hard  as  it  can. 

But  what  are  you  gainin’  ? 

Is’t  the  Lord  you  are  trainin’  ? 

Well — He  ain’t  explainin’ 

His  reasons  to  Man  ! 

‘ I find  these  lines  very  bracing  / 

‘ E.  D.  M.’ 

Once  again  a way  of  escape  was  opened  out  to  De  Morgan 
when  the  firm  of  Morris  & Co.  proposed  to  him  that  he  should 
remain  in  England  and  give  them  the  monopoly  of  his  output ; 
but  apart  from  the  state  of  his  health,  which  precluded  accept 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


223 

ance,  to  work  on  other  than  independent  lines  would  have  been 
unpalatable  to  him.  And  still  he  stubbornly  refused  to  recog- 
nize defeat.  ‘ R.  and  W.’  he  writes,  ‘ both  pelt  me  with  proofs 
that  I ought  to  wind  up  the  concern,  and  not  begin  again.  Pos- 
sibly they  are  right ; but  I shall  take  my  own  course,  and  risk 
all  consequences.  All  the  misfortunes  I have  ever  met  with,  I 
have  afterwards  found  I should  have  avoided  if  I had  relied  on 
my  own  convictions.  I’m  afraid  I’m  almost  too  old  now  to 
profit  much  by  the  lesson — but  better  late  than  never  ...  I 
hope  the  gods  will  provide  ! ’ 

But  the  gods,  according  to  their  wont,  were  deaf  or  callous. 
With  the  autumn  came  the  Boer  War,  bringing  consequent  de- 
pression to  trade,  and  further  adversely  affecting  a concern  which 
was  slowly  bleeding  to  death.  Drastic  retrenchment  became 
imperative ; and  the  show-room  in  Great  Marlborough  Street 
was  first  given  up,  though  this  De  Morgan  did  not  regard  as  an 
unmitigated  evil.  * How  to  get  rid  of  G.  M.  S.  without  bad  con- 
sequences,’ he  wrote  cheerfully,  ‘ except  by  change  of  premises, 
was  always  to  me  a problem  : — 

* For  years  I’ve  longed  for  some 
Excuse  for  this  revulsion  ; 

Now  this  excuse  has  come — 

I do  it  on  compulsion  ! ’ 

But  ere  long  ten  hands  had  to  be  discharged  from  the  factory, 
and  the  dismissal  of  men  who  had  worked  for  him  well  and 
loyally  throughout  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  former  career — who 
had  followed  him  from  Chelsea  to  Merton  and  from  Merton  to 
Fulham — always  looking  upon  themselves  as  an  integral  part  of 
a great  whole,  went  nigh  to  breaking  his  heart.  With  his  in- 
curable optimism,  however,  he  continued  to  regard  present 
disaster  as  merely  a phase  from  which  the  factory  would  event- 
ually re-issue  endowed  with  new  life.  ‘ It  is  melancholy,’  he 
wrote,  * to  think  my  men  should  be  driving  omnibuses.  What 
I am  curious  to  see  is  if,  when  any  of  them  come  back  (if  they 
do)  they  will  be  happy,  and  won’t  find  it  dull  by  comparison.’ 
Yet  an  almost  worse  situation  had  to  be  faced  in  Italy  when  he 
found  that  he  could  not  meet  the  arrears  of  wages  and  was  forced 
to  stop  the  work  of  the  keen-witted,  eager  Italians  who  had 
laboured  for  him  so  happily  in  their  rose-wreathed  workshop. 
To  a man  like  De  Morgan  who  was  generous  to  a fault  and  scru- 
pulously punctilious  in  his  payments,  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
depriving  men  who  had  served  him  faithfully  of  their  livelihood, 
and  that  he  even  owed  them  money,  for  the  payment  of  which 
he  depended  upon  uncertain  supplies  from  England,  filled  him 
with  acute  distress.  To  Mr.  Blunt  he  wrote  sadly : — 

‘ Florence, 

* Oct.,  1899. 

* I have  had  to  resort  to  a desperate  measure  to  raise  £5  for  the  chaos 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


224 

here,  lest  they  go  dinnerless.  I have  written  a cheque  on  my  bank  know 
ingly  an  overdraw.  ...  I should  think  some  cash  must  have  come  it 
[in  London],  though  if  it  has,  there  will  be  very  little  left  for  the  rest  ol 
the  quarter.  Our  very  existence  hangs  on  the  completion  of  the  Bedford 
panels  now,  and  this  will  scarcely  tide  us  over  Xmas.  Who  would  be  ar 
Art  potter  ? * 

Nevertheless,  his  old  fun  bubbles  up  again : — 

* Ewbank’s  account  of  sales  is — 

* “ Turnover  this  week  has  amounted  to  £ , making  £ only. 

as  yet,  for  the  month.” 

‘ Of  course,  he  may  have  forgotten  to  fill  in  the  amounts  ! 

* October  29 th. 

* Perhaps  I ought  not  to  have  come  away  without  winding  up.  Bui 
doing  so  would  have  meant  sacrificing  the  Woburn  panels  altogether.  . . . 
My  only  hope  is  that  when  the  place  is  actually  closed,  the  very  fact  may 
lead  to  some  new  possibilities.  . . . 

* I can’t  bring  myself  to  believe  in  our  final  extinction — especially 
just  at  a time  when  the  press  is  beginning  to  be  mighty  civil.  I saw 
myself  spoken  of  in  print  lately  as  “ this  renowned  tile-maker.”  Bless 
us  and  save  us  ! ! who  would  be  a renowned  tile-maker  after  that  ? 

* If  the  Woburn  work  tells  well,  and  is  really  satisfactory,  I have  no 
doubt  I can  make  a special  application  to  the  Duke,  and  he’ll  write  a 
cheque  without  looking  at  his  pass-book  ! All  turns  on  that ! * 

With  the  cessation  of  his  own  ability  to  fire  the  pottery,  De 
Morgan  asked  the  firm  of  Cantagalli  to  complete  some  pieces  at 
which  he  continued  to  work  in  desultory  fashion.1  Thus  they 
painted  for  him  a great  vase  of  his  design,  the  material  employed 
being  their  own — a production  which  proved  unusual  in  appear- 
ance. Although  rich  and  deep  in  decoration,  it  is  entirely  unlike 
his  more  vivid  work,  the  whole  being  painted  in  a minor  key — 
possibly  in  harmony  with  the  then  depression  of  his  mood — a 
scheme  of  purples,  black  and  grey-blue.  Another  vase  which 
bears  the  signature  of  both  De  Morgan  and  Cantagalli  is  a copy 
of  the  old  Urbino,  showing  a design  in  pale  relief  of  the  infant 
Bacchus  piping  and  dancing,  with  snakes  entwined  on  a back- 
ground of  brilliant  rose-pink  lustre.  A decoration  of  vine-leaves 
and  grapes  surmounts  the  whole,  and  the  handles  are  fashioned 
out  of  twisted  snakes  the  hue  of  lapis-lazuli.  Besides  this, 
Cantagalli  fired  certain  pieces  on  which  De  Morgan  experimented 

1 ‘ With  regard  to  the  Italian  position  of  the  factory,’  wrote  Evelyn 
De  Morgan  in  1917,  ‘I  want  to  emphasize  that  there  was  no  sort  of 
connexion  whatever  with  the  De  Morgan  work  in  Italy  and  the  Fabrica 
Cantagalli.  Some  time  after  Signor  Cantagalli’s  death,  my  husband  got 
them  to  paint  a vase  from  his  designs,  also  about  four  or  five  dishes,  the 
materials  employed  being  their  own.  These  designs,  executed  by  them 
for  him,  were  not  in  any  way  connected  with  the  output  of  their  own  firm, 
merely  an  order  given  to  them  by  him.  With  regard  to  the  experiments 
on  a paraffin  ground,  the  one  successful  plate  was  painted  by  him 
himself  and  he  employed  his  own  men  on  other  attempts  of  the  kind, 
but  merely  sent  the  dishes  to  be  fired  in  the  Cantagalli  kiln — Cantagalli’* 
people  having  no  more  part  in  the  experiment  than  Doultons  have  when 
a sculptor  sends  his  terra-cotta  work  to  them  to  be  fired/ 


The  God  Pan 
William  De  Morgan  fecit 

In  coloured  pottery,  with  goat-ears  and  horns ; crowned  with  a chaplet  of  ivy- 
leaves.  Height,  23  inches  ; width  at  base,  15  inches. 

[Zn  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Stirling. 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD  22« 

with  a ground  prepared  with  paraffin,  which  he  found  gave  a 
greater  facility  to  the  painter  and  enabled  the  colours  to  flow 
like  oil.  Four  or  five  dishes  were  done  for  him  in  this  method, 
some  of  which  show  mermaids  with  waving  hair,  or  Neptune  and 
his  Queen  disporting  in  sea-blue  waves  ; and  one  which  exhibits 
a fine  design  of  the  infant  Achilles  riding  on  Cheiron,  but  in 
which  it  is  curious  to  note  that  the  workmen  of  Cantagaili  have 
reproduced  the  design  with  the  bowstring  on  the  wrong  side  oi 
the  Centaur’s  arm  ! To  this  period  may  also  be  assigned  a huge 
head  of  the  god  Pan,  in  which  the  saturnine,  mocking  expression, 
and  the  penetrating  eyes  of  pale  blue,  seem  full  of  a sinister  life. 
This  was  presumably  modelled  by  Mrs.  De  Morgan,  decorated 
by  De  Morgan,  and  fired  by  Cantagaili. 

But  even  with  this  intermittent  employment  which  kept  his 
thoughts  and  fingers  temporarily  occupied,  the  depressing  sense 
of  the  failure  of  his  life-work  could  not  be  kept  at  bay.  Christ- 
mas, spent  as  usual  with  the  Spencer-Stanhopes  at  Villa  Nuti, 
was  darkened  by  the  anxiety  which  was  crushing  him.  This  lay 
like  a nightmare  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  which  the  despondency 
engendered  by  the  war  served  to  accentuate. 

* Villa  Nuti, 

' Xmas,  1899. 

‘ I am  staying  here  for  Xmas  [he  wrote  to  Mr.  Blunt] — I have  a card 
from  you,  but  I suppose  there  really  is  nothing  to  tell  and  that  the  business 
is  torpid.  . . . There  is  nothing  here  to  make  Xmas  any  better  than  in 
London — indeed  I should  imagine  that  for  us  English  it  is  worse.  We 
are  kept  in  a constant  fever  by  false  alarms,  cooked  up  by  a press  which 
always  has  a glee  in  reporting  news  in  a sense  disadvantageous  to  us. 
Then  the  anxious,  expectant  faces  of  my  men  thrown  out  here,  to  whom 
I unfortunately  owe  money  still  which  I can’t  pay,  make  an  unpleasant 
incident.  I am  trying  to  get  them  some  work  in  decoration,  but  it  is 
only  in  the  summer  that  much  of  this  sort  of  work  is  going  about.  . . . 

‘ I am  hoping  to  have  from  you  a general  statement  of  how  we  stand. 
Anyhow  I wish  you  a Xmas  not  further  clouded  than  we  are  at  this  moment 
of  writing,  and  even  perhaps  with  a silver  lining  creeping  round  the 
cloud’s  corner. 

“ 11  tin,  1900. 

‘ As  I understand  matters  now,  we  (the  business)  have  just  enough 
owing  to  us  to  carry  through  till  Lady-day  on  the  reduced  scale.  If  I 
diminish  this  by  50  now,  either  I shall  have  to  find  another  50  by  March 
or  we  shall  have  to  close  the  factory.  Well — what  must  be  must  ! Any- 
how, if  I cannot  have  50,  it  is  clear  we  are  stopped.  Just  look  at  the 
Italian  account — it’s  awful  ! 

‘ Nevertheless,  the  strategy  is  all  to  hold  on,  although  the  field  tactics 
all  point  to  surrender.  . . . But  for  the  moment  I am  owing  money  to 
the  men  here  still  (about  £ 20 ) and  have  nothing  to  live  on,  so  that  50  is 
a sine  qua  non,  though  it  isn’t  a cum  qua  multum. 

‘ The  chaps  here  are  languidly  at  work  on  K.L.  with  blue  background, 
which  I have  told  them  I may  not  be  able  to  buy  of  them  ; and  are  harder 
at  work  on  wall-stencil  patterns.  I am  hoping  to  get  them  decorative 
work  to  do,  and  this  will  be  a great  convenience  because  I shall  be  able 
to  get  tile-work  done  when  wanted,  by  special  job,  not  have  to  keep  them 
all  going  always.  I wish  something  of  the  kind  were  more  possible  in 

W 


226 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

England — if  only  the  chaps  could  groce  greens,  or  mongue  iron,  or  victual 
licentiously,  while  employing  odd  hours  on  painting. 

‘ Feb.  8th,  1900. 

‘ If  the  pottery  is  finally  strangled  by  the  Boers,  I shall  have  to  take 
to  something  else  permanently — -but  this  will  be  compulsion,  not  choice. 

‘ Feb.  9 th. 

‘ The  cheque  has  arrived — and  I’m  delighted.  For  I had  exactly  ten 
cents  in  the  world,  and  two  more  halfpenny  papers  would  have  reduced 
me  to  beggary  ! ’ 

By  January,  1903,  we  find  him  writing  : ‘ I have  had  to  close 
at  Fulham  temporarily  (and  the  tempus  may  be  a long  one),  as 
the  wages  must  stop  until  our  arrears  are  got  the  better  of.  . . . 
Of  course  it’s  not  a cheerful  way  of  conducting  business.  . . . 
If  I were  in  London  it  would  all  be  different — but  then  I’m  not.’ 
At  the  end  of  1904  he  wrote  to  Mackail : — 

Via  Lungo  il  Mugnone,  No.  19,  Florence. 

* Dear  Jack,— 

‘ Please  return  me  a true  Bill  for  that — I am  gradually  breaking 
in  all  Florence  to  call  me  by  that  name — and  hope  to  be  universally 
accepted  as  such  before  I fall  due. 

‘ But  it  is  not  of  that  I am  going  for  to  sing — but  of  an  inquiry  ascribed 
to  you  by  Mary  about  the  valuable  original  drawings  of  tiles  and  things 
that  an  unfortunate  misconception  of  my  powers  has  betrayed  me  into 
making  during  the  whole  of  the  present  century  and  a quarter  of  last. 
These  are  mostly  assets  of  D.M.  and  Co.,  in  liquidation  ; and  that  Firm’s 
Mr.  De  Morgan  wants  to  have  them  himself.  He  intends  to  resume 
manufacture  as  soon  as  ever  he  sees  his  way  to  replacing  the  capital  that 
has  been  withdrawn  from  the  Fulham  turn-out.  If  D.  M.  and  Co.,  to 
whom  they  belong,  decide  to  offer  these  splendid  productions  to  a grateful 
Nation,  I shall  raise  no  objection.  But  the  half  of  the  Firm  now  in 
Florence  says  she  won’t  agree  to  give  up  anything  that  will  contribute  to 
a re-animation  of  the  concern,  and  is  leaving  most  of  her  capital  in  until 
we  return,  to  keep  the  life  in  it  till  better  may  be.  You  see  she  is  Cer- 
amicably  disposed  towards  it. 

‘ Seriously,  the  things  have  no  value,  and  if  there  were  no  chance  of 
their  being  used  again,  I am  sure  all  who  are  concerned  would  raise  no 
objection  to  their  being  made  a bundle  of  and  sent  to  the  Department, 
to  use  as  a warning  or  an  example  as  might  seem  best.  But  four  or  five 
of  my  old  workmen  are  keeping  things  together  on  a sort  of  co-operative 
system  till  my  return  in  the  Spring  gives  reconstruction  a chance.’ 

For  a space  the  reconstructed  factory  dragged  on  a pre- 
carious existence  with  De  Morgan,  lies  and  Fred  Passenger  as 
co-partners  ; then  Fate  dealt  the  final  blow.  ‘ The  last  shell  was 
pitched  into  the  works,’  relates  De  Morgan  with  the  reticence 
of  tragedy,  ‘ when  neuritis  gripped  my  business  thumb  and 
stopped  my  drawing.  I threw  Art  aside  after  forty  odd  years.’ 
In  1905  he  wrote  : ‘ My  old  joke  with  Morris  about  the  Fictionary 
which  became  a Factory  is  now  reversed.  Sic  transit ! ’ 

In  a later  letter  he  pronounced  a final  requiescat  in  pace  over 
the  hopes  and  ambitions  of  so  many  years  : ‘ My  former  works,’ 
he  says,  with  a gentle  irony,  ‘ are  now  the  source  of  that  far 
more  useful  stuff,  Blue-Bell  Polish  ! ’ 


THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


227 


Thus  ended  De  Morgan’s  career  as  a Potter.  When,  how- 
ever, his  own  connexion  ceased  with  the  manufacture  of  the 
ware  which  bore  his  name,  he  still  allowed  his  men  to  continue 
working  at  his  designs,  by  his  methods.  ‘ A good  many  pots,’ 
he  wrote  as  late  as  1914,  ‘ decorated  from  the  same  drawings,  by 
the  same  painters  and  fired  in  the  same  way,  have  been  done  of 
late  years,  but  on  a Staffordshire  ground.’  These — which  may 
be  termed  posthumous  works  of  the  De  Morgan  factory — have, 
however,  for  the  most  part,  a hardness  of  glaze  and  a lack  of 
elasticity  in  the  interpretation  of  the  designs  apparent  to  those 
who  have  studied  the  original  ware  executed  under  the  hand  and 
eye  of  the  master ; and  it  is  to  be  regretted  from  an  artistic 
standpoint  that,  with  a generosity  which  scorned  any  monopoly 
of  his  discoveries  or  his  designs,  De  Morgan  countenanced  the 
production  of  work  which,  as  far  as  his  personal  association  with 
it  is  concerned,  may  be  termed  spurious.  He  took  the  precau- 
tion, indeed,  to  write  to  his  former  manager,  Ewbank,  as  follows  : 

‘ March  14  th,  1911. 

* No  signature  must  appear  on  the  ware  that  can  possibly  mislead 
any  purchaser  as  to  its  origin.  Otherwise  I should  like  it  to  have  the  full 
advantage  of  the  fact  that  it  is  executed  by  the  same  men,  and  has  my 
cordial  wishes  for  its  success.  All  legitimate  advantage  would  be  got  by  a 
Ewbank,  lies  and  Passenger  stamp.’ 

Nevertheless,  a confusion  has  not  unnaturally  arisen  at  times 
between  the  original  and  the  posthumous  De  Morgan  pottery, 
and  therefore  it  may  be  as  well  to  append  some  of  the  distinctive 
marks  belonging  to  the  different  periods  of  its  manufacture, 
though  these  were  utilised  principally  in  connexion  with  the  tiles. 

Dates , locality  of  manufacture  and  distinguishing  marks  of  De 
Morgan  tiles  : — 


Cheyne  Row  and  Orange 
House,  Chelsea.  1872- 
1881 

Merton  Abbey.  1881 -1888  , 


Sands  End,  De  Morgan 
Road,  Fulham.  1888-1899 


In  partnership  with  lies  and 
Passenger.  1899-1905 


At  this  period  De  Morgan  was  not 
making  his  own  biscuit : Sign,  bars  at 
the  back  of  the  tiles. 

Sign  De  Morgan,  in  a lozenge,  or  an 
illustration  of  the  Abbey  in  which  W. 
D.  M.  carries  on  the  M.  of  the  Merton. 
It  reads  like  W.  De  Merton  Abbey. 
Name  written  round  a Tudor  rose  with 
five  petals — Wm.  De  Morgan  & Co., 
Sands  End  Pottery,  Fulham.  After 
the  partnership  was  dissolved  signed 
De  M.1898 — not  in  a lozenge  but  in 
a circle.  He  added  the  so-called  tulip 
mark  given  in  Chaffers. 

D.J.P.  During  this  period  he  built  a 
gas  furnace  instead  of  coke. 

1905.  De  Morgan’s  connexion  with  the  manufacture  ceased.  lies 
and  Passenger  subsequently  decorated  and  refired  some  pottery  in  W.  De 
Morgan’s  designs  ; marks  C.P.  & F.P. 

Nevertheless,  out  of  the  extinct  factory  arose  a monument  to 
its  memory  which,  as  such,  may  be  regarded  as  a National  asset. 


228  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

Mention  has  been  made  before  of  the  fact  that  De  Morgan 
had  successfully  manufactured  tiles  which  would  stand  exposure 
to  the  vagaries  of  a changeable  climate.  At  the  date  when  his 
connexion  with  the  pottery  came  to  an  end,  Halsey  Ricardo  was 
employed  in  constructing  a house  for  Mr.  Debenham  in  Addison 
Road,  which  he  intended  should  represent  two  achievements — 
firstly,  a building  immune  from  the  destructive  effects  of  a city 
atmosphere,  and  secondly  the  inauguration  of  an  architecture  to 
be  expressed  in  forms  of  colour.  Out  of  the  derelict  factory  he 
therefore  selected  a mass  of  the  finest  tiles  by  De  Morgan,  and 
employed  these  both  externally  and  internally,  from  basement 
to  roof,  in  the  decoration  of  this  house. 

The  result  is  a structure,  the  striking  exterior  of  which  is 
surpassed  by  the  wonderful  colour-scheme  within.  A long  and 
picturesque  entrance-loggia,  with  columns  of  granite,  tiled  in  rich 
blue-green,  and  terminating  in  a lunette  of  flying  cranes,  leads 
to  a dwelling,  the  walls  of  which  are  lined  with  tiles  in  the  same 
peacock  colouring,  and  with  panels,  friezes,  and  lunettes  of  rich 
and  elaborate  design.  Passages  and  archways  show  a vista  of 
gorgeous  hue  like  some  magic  Eastern  Palace  of  Dreams.  In  the 
centre  rises  a hall  roofed  in  by  a glittering  dome  of  mosaics  ; 
archways  and  pendentives  of  gold  mosaic  throw  into  bold  relief 
the  rich  oriental  tint  of  the  walls  and  the  frescoes.  In  the  corri- 
dors beyond,  duplicates  of  the  vanished  ships’  panels  may  be 
seen,  great  eagles  and  birds  of  prey,  strange  fancies  in  beast  life, 
rare  designs  in  trailing  leaf  and.  glinting  foliage.  Moreover, 
against  the  prevailing  brilliance  of  the  background,  here  and 
there  stand  great  cabinets  full  of  age-old  pottery  from  Persia  and 
Asia  Minor  which  shine  with  a mysterious  pearly  radiance  pro- 
duced by  long  burial  in  the  earth.  And  it  is  interesting  to  note 
how  these  gems  of  ancient  Art  are  in  harmony  with  their  sur- 
roundings and  are  seen  thus  in  their  rightful  setting,  enhanced 
by  the  work  of  a potter  who,  separated  from  the  ancient  crafts- 
men by  the  passing  of  centuries,  is  yet  linked  with  them  in  a 
community  of  ideas. 

Further,  throughout  the  house,  there  are  tiled  fireplaces  of 
unusual  construction,  ornamented  by  rare  marbles  which  blend 
or  contrast  happily  with  each  separate  colour-scheme.  One 
mantelpiece  and  sides  show  the  grey  pink  of  the  copper  lustres ; 
one  is  all  blue  with  a delicate  atmospheric  effect ; another  is 
planned  with  ships  in  red  lustre  alternating  with  a decoration 
which  represents  a shimmering  red  bough  ; yet  another  exhibits 
raised  flowers  in  orange,  shading  to  a translucent  pink.  Again, 
where  appropriate,  in  the  bathrooms  and  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  nurseries,  some  of  the  walls  are  tiled  solely  with  the  grotesque 
birds  and  animals  in  the  invention  of  which  De  Morgan  was  a 
past-master  and  which  for  all  time  are  unique — for  while  the 


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THE  FULHAM  PERIOD 


229 

future  may  produce  imitators  of  De  Morgan  ware  in  colour  and 
process,  no  brain  will  ever  emulate  the  peculiarly  individual 
character  of  his  rare  and  delicate  humour. 

Thus  Phoenix-like  out  of  the  dead  factory  rose  this  structure 
commemorative  of  its  existence  and  encircled  by  a lovely  garden 
where  loggias,  pavilions  and  fountain-tanks  again  reflect  in  the 
pale  English  sunshine  the  glowing  richness  of  the  bl&e-and-green 
oriental  colour-scheme.  And  so  it  is  in  life,  that  out  of  what 
seems  failure  often  arises  a permanent  and  unforeseen  result ; for 
this  house  which,  like  some  Aladdin’s  palace,  has  sprung  up  amid 
incongruous  surroundings,  stands  to-day  a monument  to  the 
creative  power  of  two  men — the  architect  who  designed  it  and 
the  potter  whose  best  life-work  it  preserves  and  enshrines  for 
posterity. 

‘ I have  had  no  orders  for  Tuileries  Palaces  yet,’  wrote 
Ricardo  to  De  Morgan,  sending  him  the  Journal  of  Architecture , 
in  which  illustrations  of  the  house  were  reproduced ; and  De 
Morgan  replied  : — • 

' Florence, 

* March  2.1st,  1907. 

* It’s  really  a pleasure  to  write  to  you  with  no  damn  business  in  it  ! 
This  time  only  thanks  for  the  shiny-paged  journal,  with  the  really  won 
derful  pictures  of  THE  HOUSE  in  it.  It  is  a beautiful  palace — there’s 
no  doubt  of  it. 

‘ But  Millionaires  aren’t  half  millionaires  not  to  say  at  once  “ Let’s 
build  a city  that-wise,  forthwith  ! ” Not  a mere  house  but  a town  of 
houses — and  plant  all  the  gardens  forthwith,  straight-away,  to  be  ready 
when  the  houses  are  finishing  fifty  years  hence. 

* I don’t  much  care  for  the  figure  a-top  of  the  dome — seems  to  me  to 
want  impersonality — is  that  intelligible,  or  otherwise  ? 

‘ I hope  you  overstated  the  non-existence  of  orders  for  new  houses — 
of  course  over-statement  is  cut  off  at  a limit  in  this  case.  Well  ! I hope 
what  you  said  was  short  of  the  limit. 

' Them's  my  ideas  about  the  house.’ 

Nevertheless,  to  the  artist,  happiness  lies  not  in  fruition  but 
in  endeavour ; and  so  to  De  Morgan  the  enforced  cessation  of 
his  work  remained  fraught  with  an  indescribable  bitterness. 

‘ All  my  life  I have  been  trying  to  make  beautiful  things,  and 
now  that  I can  make  them  nobody  wants  them  ! ’ he  said  once 
in  a mood  of  dire  despondency  ; ‘ Only  my  own  extinction  can 
make  them  valuable  ! ’ Yet  this,  the  saddest  cry  of  Art  crippled 
by  commercial  considerations,  is  a lament  as  old  as  civilization 
itself.  Of  all  those  lovers  of  beauty  who  to-day  would  give  fancy 
prices  for  De  Morgan  ware,  there  was  not  one  to  come  forward 
to  enable  the  creator  to  create  while  life  still  inspired  the  glowing 
fancy  and  ingenious  brain.  But  Man’s  primitive  custom  of 
deifying  the  dead  still  survives ; and  only  when  Death,  by 
putting  a period  to  production,  has  at  last  set  a mercantile  value 
upon  a work  of  art,  does  it  obtain  due  recognition  from  an  appre- 
ciative public. 


CHAPTER  X 


JOSEPH  VANCE 
1905-1906 

\\  f JTH  the  cessation  of  the  work  which  had  been  the  main- 
V spring  of  so  many  years.  Life  had  lost  its  savour  for  De 
Morgan,  and  only  the  belief  sustained  him  that  the  dead  factory 
would  some  day  be  revivified  into  a successful  existence.  ‘ That 
is  the  hope  I live  in/  he  wrote. 

To  add  to  the  sadness  of  this  time,  two  of  his  oldest  friends 
had  passed  from  him.  In  1896  William  Morris  had  ended  his 
brilliant  career  after  a period  of  protracted  suffering,  during 
which  Mary  De  Morgan  had  been  among  those  who  ministered 
to  his  darkened  hours.  And  dying  thus  slowly,  when  scarcely 
past  the  fulness  of  a splendid  manhood,  the  poet-artist  had 
breathed  a gallant  farewell  to  existence — I have  had  a beautiful 
life,  and  I’m  glad  of  it/  But  to  De  Morgan  it  seemed  impossible 
to  believe  that  that  companion  of  so  many  years — that  vivid 
personality  with  the  spacious  genius  and  the  fiery  energy — had 
drifted  into  the  great  Silence.  Two  years  later  Burne-Jones, 
still  working  with  undiminished  power  upon  one  of  his  finest 
conceptions,  had  been  snatched  away  abruptly  in  mortal  agony. 
And  when  De  Morgan  saw  his  wonderful  ‘ Avalon/  there  were 
still  upon  it  the  chalk  marks  indicating  the  work  which  the  dead 
painter  had  intended  to  do  on  that  morrow  which  never  came. 

Later,  out  in  Florence,  the  Biography  of  William  Morris 
stirred  in  De  Morgan  many  memories,  and  filled  him  with 
admiration  for  the  matter  and  the  manner  of  it. 

William  De  Morgan  to  J.  W.  Mackail. 

' Chelsea, 

‘ May  24 th,  ’99. 

* I must  unburden  my  mind  of  an  accumulation  of  suppressed  praise 
of  the  Biography.  It  goes  on  growing  and  growing  as  I read.  And  now 
I have  read  all  but  all  of  it — and  much  two  or  three  times  over — and  I 
have  a right  to  say  how  well  done  I think  it. 

‘ For  indeed  you  have  done  well,  and  that’s  the  sacred  truth.  And 
you  have  done  well  where  there  was  so  much  room  for  failure — such 
a-many  opportunities  for  doing  it  ill  ! 

‘ How  I pity  you  through  all  the  months  of  responsibility — it  must 

9.30 


JOSEPH  VANCE  231 

have  been  fearful ! — and  how  I congratulate  you  upon  having  got  through 
it  so  well — if  there  is  a hitch  or  a fault  anywhere,  I have  not  found  it  out 

‘ What  has  delighted  me  particularly  has  been  the  way  you  have 
written  in  detail  about  his  poetry.  It  was  difficult  (wasn’t  it  ?)  to  do  it 
justice  without  seeming  to  overflow  into  blind  praise.  Anyhow  I shall 
always  say  of  you  what  is  reported  to  have  been  said  by  a Scotch  gentle- 
man, “ He’s  a vara  sensible  mon — he  agrees  wi’  maist  of  my  opeenions.” 
Please  think  me  a vara  sensible  mon  on  the  same  grounds,  at  any  rate  as 
far  as  Morris’s  poetry  goes. 

‘ I shall  read  that  book  very  often,  I know,  and  always  thank  you  for 
it.  Evelyn  endorses  me  all  round.’ 

A few  years  later  news  came  to  De  Morgan  of  the  passing  of 
another  of  the  giant  intellects  of  his  generation — George  Fred- 
erick Watts,  R.A.,  the  kindly  ‘ Signor ' of  many  happy  recollec- 
tions. During  the  last  years  of  active  life,  while  Watts  was  still 
working  at  his  great  statue  of  Physical  Energy,  it  had  been  an 
arresting  sight  to  see  the  spare,  ethereal  figure  of  the  sculptor 
beside  his  powerful  creation,  the  strong  brain  still  dominating 
the  weak  body — frail  old  Age  creating  immortal  Youth.  * My 
gratitude  is  great  indeed  to  Signor/  De  Morgan  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Watts,  ‘ both  for  his  Art  and  its  teaching.  All  will  lay  stress  on 
the  latter  who  suspect,  as  I do,  that  the  death  of  a man  is  the 
birth  of  a soul — I suppose  we  shall  know  all  about  it  before  very 
long — all  of  us  ! * 

That  same  year,  1904,  came  out  the  Memorials  of  Edward 
Burne- Jones , written  by  his  wife  ; and  again  De  Morgan,  living  in 
the  Past,  wrote  to  Mackail : * Do  you  know  it  is  a long,  long  time 
since  anything  has  given  me  such  unmixed  pleasure  as  the  Life 
— certainly  nothing  in  the  same  line  since  yours  of  Morris — what 
I feel  and  hear  said  by  others  is  that  the  beauty  of  the  workman- 
ship will  attract  and  engross  those  who  never  realized  anything 
of  its  subject  at  all  during  his  life — in  fact,  that  it  will  bring  in 
outsiders.  What  very  short  ways  there  are  of  saying  things — 
if  one  could  only  pitch  on  them  at  the  first  go  off ! Anyhow,  the 
book  is  a delightful  book,  and  that  not  only  for  me  because  of 
my  old  memories,  but  for  what  a thoughtful  man  of  my  acquain- 
tance calls  “ our  contemporaries  of  the  Future.”  I shall  write  an 

effusion  to  the  author  when  Fve  done  the  2nd  vol. — if  ever  my 
present  wife  lets  me  have  it  to  finish/ 

In  answer  to  appreciative  letters  from  both  husband  and 
wife  Lady  Burne-Jones  wrote  with  the  charm  which  charac- 
terized her  correspondence : — 

Lady  Burne- Jones  to  Mrs.  De  Morgan. 

‘ Jan.  19 th,  1905. 

* My  dear  Evelyn, — 

‘ How  kind  of  you  to  write  me  the  warm-hearted  note  that  came 
this  morning  ! I do  value  the  sympathy  of  my  friends  so  very  much  and 
am  comforted  by  it  beyond  words.  Thank  you,  my  dear,  for  what  you 


232  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

say.  So  many  have  told  me  that  they  hear  the  voice  again  and  find 
passed  days  brought  back  by  the  Memorials — which  is  what  I wanted — 
and  the  evident  interest  and  importance  of  the  men  and  the  time  dealt 
with,  to  strangers,  has  been  beyond  my  expectation. 

‘ Have  you  seen  Arthur  Hughes’s  illustrations  to  a child’s  book  called 
Babies ’ Classics  ? it  is  very  lovely  sad  shows  him  to  be  no  day  older  than 
when  he  did  Sing-song,  bless  him  ! Ah,  my  dear,  it  is  not  fairy  gold 
that  we  have  been  laying  up,  the  reality  of  those  treasures  never  fails  for 
a minute. 

‘ Yes,  I hope  in  course  of  time,  Mr.  Rooke  will  give  us  a book  of  con- 
versations and  recollections.  I have  often  compared  him  to  Eckermann 
in  my  mind. 

‘ We  had  a good  Christmas,  all  the  children  and  grand -children  were 
here,  and  the  name  we  love  was  often  spoken. 

* Sometimes  I dream  of  coming  out  to  Florence  and  going  on  to 
Venice — I wonder  if  it  will  ever  come  true  ! ’ 

Lady  Burne- Jones  to  William  De  Morgan. 

‘ Rottingdean,  Sussex, 

* Feb.  1 5th,  1905. 

* My  dear  William, — 

‘ Having  answered  other  letters  of  less  intimate  friends — you  under- 
stand that  ! — I turn  gladly  to  your  patiently  waiting  pages. 

‘ The  words  you  picked  out  to  say  about  the  Memorials  could  not  be 
matched  for  their  comfort,  and  that  you  and  other  friends  whose  knowledge 
and  judgment  I value  have  said  the  same  thing,  is  my  daily  help  and 
strength.  I realize  now  the  difficulty  and  danger  of  my  attempt  as  I 
did  not  beforehand — how  could  I ? The  profound  interest  of  the  thing 
swallowed  up  all  fear.  I am  greatly  pleased  by  the  eagerness  and  serious- 
ness with  which  the  story  has  been  received  by  the  papers  as  a rule  ; I 
feel  as  if  the  publication  had  been  timely  which  is  so  important  a thing, 
and  that  the  lives  and  wrork  of  those  wonderful  men  have  already  begun 
to  work  like  leaven. 

* How  glad  I am  of  what  you  say  about  the  talks  with  Dr.  Evans  ; 1 
they  give  me  great  joy,  and  I recognize  their  truth,  though  of  course 
Edward  never  talked  to  me  in  that  particular  way. 

‘ Crom  Price,  too,  hailed  them  as  reminding  him  of  the  fiery  Oxford 
days.  Yes,  “ Sebastian  ” was  a great  gift  in  those  later  years.  You 
would  like  him  much.  He  has  been  to  see  me  two  or  three  times  down 
here,  and  will  come  again  I hope  before  the  Summer,  for  I value  his  friend- 
ship, deeply. 

‘ You  may  trust  in  your  version  of  Rossetti’s  Crom  poem  2 being  the 
wrong  one,  whoever  gave  it  you.  I had  mine  from  Ned,  and  often  heard 
it  chanted  by  him.  I ask  you  as  a friend  how  a “ dead  dog  ” can  “ trickle  ” 
from  Crom’s  or  any  other  pocket — and  then  I leave  the  subject  with  you.’ 

Meanwhile  De  Morgan,  bereft  of  what  had  been  the  aim  and 
occupation  of  so  many  years,  pondered  vaguely  how  to  fill  the 

1 The  remarkable  conversation  on  life  and  consciousness  which  Edward 
Burne-Jones  held  with  Dr.  Sebastian  Evans.  See  Memorials  of  Edward 
Burne-Jones,  Vol.  II,  pp.  251-257. 

2 A Limerick  composed  by  Rossetti  as  follows  : — 

There  was  a young  doctor  named  Crom 
Whom  you’ll  get  very  little  good  from. 

If  his  pockets  you  jog. 

The  inside  of  a dog 

Is  certain  to  trickle  from  Crom. 


Saint  Christina  Giving 

Painted  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  in  Italy,  in  1904,  and  brought  over  from 
purchased  by  Mrs,  Stirling. 


JOSEPH  VANCE  233 

empty  days,  and  thought  of  writing  a History  of  Pottery.  Then, 
in  the  guise  of  an  incident  of  small  importance,  came  the  event 
which  was  to  change  the  current  of  his  life. 

Some  time  before,  in  1901,  during  a spare  hour,  he  had  written 
two  chapters  of  a novel,  * just  to  see  what  I could  do,’  he  ex- 
plained subsequently ; ‘ I always  loved  grubby  little  boys,  and 

I thought  I should  like  to  write  a story  of  a grubby  little 
boy.  I began  and  got  interested  in  him.  But  when  I read  over 
what  I had  written,  I was  so  little  impressed  with  the  result  that 
I nearly  burnt  it ; in  any  case  I put  it  away  in  a drawer  and 
forgot  all  about  it.  Later  in  the  year,  when  we  were  going  out 
to  Florence,  it  accidentally  came  with  us  among  a great  mass  of 
business  papers.’  Turning  out  these  papers  some  time  after- 
wards, he  tossed  the  despised  manuscript  with  a heap  of  rubbish 
into  the  waste-paper  basket,  where  by  chance  his  wife  saw  it, 
and  glanced  casually  at  it  before  consigning  it  to  the  flames. 
The  story,  with  its  graphic,  sordid  realism,  at  once  gripped  her 
attention  ; she  set  it  carefully  aside  and  awaited  her  opportunity. 

Shortly  afterwards  De  Morgan  was  ill  in  bed,  suffering  osten- 
sibly from  influenza,  but  principally  from  the  unwonted  idleness 
which  filled  him  with  depression  and  sapped  his  vitality.  Evelyn 
took  the  piece  of  manuscript  to  him  and  laid  it  by  his  bedside, 
with  a pencil  temptingly  adjacent.  ‘ I think  something  might 
be  made  of  this,’  she  said  briefly.  When  she  looked  in  softly 
half  an  hour  later  he  had  started  on  the  occupation  which  he 
was  never  again  to  abandon,  and  was  writing  rapidly. 

By  and  by  she  discovered  that,  somewhat  characteristically, 
whep  she  provided  him  with  the  pencil,  she  had  omitted  to  supply 
any  paper.  As  a result  he  had  written  the  continuation  of 
Joseph  Vance  in  the  washing-book  which  happened  to  be  handy, 
and  when  that  was  full,  unable  to  arrest  the  rapidity  of  his  flying 
pen,  he  had  covered  the  backs  of  advertisements,  torn  envelopes 
and  scraps  of  paper  which  were  within  his  reach  with  the  con 
tinuation  of  the  story,  so  that  afterwards  it  was  with  difficult} 
that  she  pieced  the  disjointed  fragments  together  into  a con- 
secutive whole. 

At  first  he  did  not  treat  his  new  occupation  seriously.  ‘ My 
book,’  he  explained  later,  ‘ was  written  in  the  serenest  indepen- 
dence an  author  can  enjoy,  to  wit,  a total  disbelief  in  ultimate 
publication.  I never  considered  the  feelings  of  my  reader  for  a 
moment — nor  his  eyesight  ! ’ He  told  his  story  in  the  leisurely, 
discursive,  colloquial  fashion  in  which  he  transcribed  letters  to 
a friend.  He  wrote  as  he  saw,  as  he  felt,  as  he  knew — unham- 
pered by  the  fear  of  little  gods  or  Great  Men — press,  publishers 
or  public ; and  thus,  as  ideas  begotten  of  the  heterogeneous 
experience  of  years  poured  from  his  brain,  moulded  into  fiction, 
the  keynote  of  his  work  was  a great  sincerity. 


234  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

1 The  original  idea  of  this  novel  as  it  first  came  to  me/  he 
explained  subsequently,  * was  a story  supposed  to  be  told  to 
me  by  an  old  man  dying  in  the  workhouse.  It  was  the  history 
of  his  own  life,  and  on  its  bare  material  side  was  that  of  Joseph 
Vance.  There  was,  however,  no  sentiment  in  it  of  any  kind ; 
no  humour,  no  brightness  anywhere.  My  imaginary  old  man 
was,  naturally  enough,  fearfully  depressed  and  melancholy,  and 
his  narrative,  or  rather  what  seemed  to  me,  his  facts  as  they 
stood,  were  too  unutterably  sad  for  any  picturesque  form  of 
reproduction.  But  gradually  the  story  took  the  bit  into  its  teeth 
and  twisted  into  what  I never  intended.  I found  the  task  a very 
pleasant  one ; and  when  Lossie  came  into  it,  I began  to  get 
deeply  interested/ 

As  it  stands  to-day,  the  tale  is  almost  too  well  known  to  need 
recapitulation.  Presented  in  the  form  of  an  autobiography, 
Joseph  Vance,  the  fictitious  writer,  holds  the  chief  place  through- 
out. His  father,  Christopher  Vance,  was  a workman,  given  to 
drink.  In  consequence  of  this  failing,  he  lost  his  job  ; and  while 
ruffled  in  temper  at  this  untoward  result,  he  became  involved  in 
a public-house  brawl  with  a sweep,  Peter  Gunn,  who  fought  with 
a genius  peculiar  to  himself,  by  butting  his  opponent  with  his 
cranium,  a weapon  as  deadly  as  it  was  adamantine.  Christopher, 
considerably  damaged  by  this  treatment,  was  removed  to  the 
hospital ; while  his  small  son,  from  a safe  place  of  concealment, 
avenged  his  father’s  wrongs  by  successfully  shying  a broken 
bottle  at  the  sweep,  whom  he  thus  triumphantly  blinded  in  one 
eye.  _ 

When  Christopher  returned  to  the  world,  temporarily  chas- 
tened in  mind  and  body,  he,  by  mere  chance,  purchased  from 
a pedlar  a board  which  bore  the  legend  : ‘ C.  Dance , Builder. 
Repairs,  Drains  promptly  attended  tod  A little  manipulating 
altered  the  ‘ D ’ into  a ‘ V/  and  the  announcement  thus  bearing 
his  own  name,  he  placed  it  above  his  door.  As  though  there  had 
been  magic  in  it,  all  the  neighbourhood  became  convinced  that 
it  had  been  there  for  years  ; and  custom  came  to  its  owner. 
Vance  got  rich,  owing  primarily  to  his  astute  understanding  of 
human  nature,  and  his  grand,  unalterable  principle  of  ‘ never 
doing  anything  with  his  own  hands.’  By  and  by  he  had  Works 
of  his  own,  and  moved  into  a larger  house ; but  he  remained  true 
to  his  type  and  to  his  original  character,  even  to  the  end  when,  in 
consequence  of  one  of  his  periodical  lapses  into  drunken  habits,  he 
burnt  down  his  premises,  and  having  omitted  to  pay  up  his 
insurance,  would  have  fallen  once  more  into  poverty,  but  for  his 
foresight  in  having  provided  his  second  wife  with  a valuable 
diamond  ‘ Tiarrhoea  ’ which  the  creditors  could  not  touch. 
Vance  is  an  extraordinarily  clever  presentment  of  the  British 
workman  of  a former  generation,  with  his  grit,  his  shrewdness. 


JOSEPH  VANCE  235 

his  endearing  good-heartedness,  and  his  vigorous  common  sense, 
so  that  he  remains  delightful  to  the  last  despite  his  blatant  vul- 
garity of  speech  and  his  palpable  failings.  The  portraits  of  his 
two  wives — particularly  the  second,  Miss  Seraphina  Dowdswell, 
more  commonly  called  Pheener,  are  equally  and  humorously  true 
to  class,  and  unalterably  consistent. 

Throughout  the  waxing  and  the  waning  of  Christopher’s  for- 
tunes, his  son  Joseph  is  seen,  first  as  a delightful  child  with  a 
passion  for  mathematics  which  procures  him  a nomination  for  a 
good  school  from  his  father’s  earliest  employer,  Dr.  Thorpe  ; 
then  at  Oxford ; then  in  London,  where  he  becomes  a partner  in 
an  engineering  business.  And  meantime  the  sustained  interest 
in  his  career  lies  not  in  any  dramatic  incident,  which  would  mar 
the  realism,  but  in  the  gradual  development  of  his  character  and 
the  unwavering  charm  of  his  personality  ; in  his  association  with 
his  friends  and  particularly  in  his  attitude  towards  the  two 
women  who  prominently  affect  his  life.  The  first  of  these, 
Lossie  Thorpe,  is  an  exquisitely  drawn  figure,  who,  to  the  small 
Joseph  in  his  boyhood,  is  a species  of  divinity.  When  in  the 
dawn  of  a lovely  womanhood,  she  marries  an  Indian  soldier,  poor 
Joe  discovers  that  he  has  all  along  been  deeply  in  love  with  her, 
and  she  remains  the  lodestar  of  his  saddened  days.  ‘ There  was 
no  real  Lossie  ! ’ De  Morgan  said  afterwards  when  questioned  as 
to  her  origin  ; ‘ but  she  came  to  me  in  the  book  as  though  she 
belonged  there.  She  really  seemed  to  step  out  into  my  literary 
life,  just  as  the  girl  in  the  story  did  into  Joseph  Vance’s.’  Yet 
the  second  woman,  Janey,  who  becomes  Joe’s  wife  when  the 
early  glamour  of  this  boyish  romance  has  faded  into  a pained 
remembrance,  is  the  more  subtly  drawn  character  of  the  two. 
From  her  first  appearance,  when  she  drifts  into  Joe’s  life  and 
heart  so  quietly  that  he  scarcely  recognizes  her  influence,  till  the 
last  all-too-tragic  moment  when  they  were  both  battling  in  the 
sea  after  a shipwreck  and  she  drifts  away  from  him  for  ever,  she 
is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  pieces  of  characterization  in  the 
book. 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  story,  Joe,  all  alone  in  the  world, 
takes  upon  himself  the  blame  of  another  man’s  crime,  the  dis- 
tasteful decadent  Beppino,  an  unworthy  son  of  a delightful 
father,  Dr.  Thorpe ; and  in  order  to  spare  Lossie  the  knowledge 
of  her  brother’s  true  nature,  he  is  content  to  live  under  a cloud 
during  a long  exile  in  South  America.  The  last  chapters  are  full 
of  the  poignant  tragedy  of  advancing  age  and  profound  loneli- 
ness ; nevertheless,  it  ends  happily,  on  the  note  of  the  romance 
which  has  been  sustained  throughout. 

Such  is  the  bald  outline  of  the  story,  without  the  light  and 
shade,  or  the  manifold  subtleties  which  made  of  it  a human 
document.  In  1904  De  Morgan  wrote  facetiously  to  Mackaii 


236  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

‘ I am  nearing  the  end  of  Joe — he  tells  lies,  but  the  supreme  skill 
of  the  author  justifies  them  ! * By  and  by  he  sent  a portion  of 
the  voluminous  manuscript  to  a friend  in  London,  Mrs.  Dowson 
(now  Mrs.  Hugh  Woolner),  who  had  started  a type- writing  office. 

‘ After  Manuscripture  comes  the  type/  he  wrote,  ‘ and  one  has 
to  be  careful  of  the  type — like  Nature — or  what  she  ought  to 
have  been.  In  fact,  I expect  my  brain  will  be  softening  with 
revision  later.  I shall  hope,  however,  for  “ Good  news  from 
Ghent  ” to  soothe  the  head  Aix  I shall  be  suffering  from.  I can’t 
help  thinking  this  is  a pun  ! ’ 

One  result  of  the  typing  provided  encouragement.  The  girl 
to  whom  it  was  entrusted  by  Mrs.  Dowson  was  discovered  dis- 
solved in  tears,  and  on  being  questioned  respecting  the  cause  of 
her  grief,  she  admitted  that  her  feelings  had  been  so  powerfully 
worked  upon  by  Janey’s  death  in  the  story,  that  she  could  not 
get  on  with  her  work.  Later,  De  Morgan,  sending  the  rest  of 
the  MS.,  wrote  genially  : 'You  will  be  sorry  to  hear  of  the  death 
of  Dr.  Thorpe.  But  don’t  let  anyone  fret — he  died  quite  pain- 
lessly— I killed  him  in  a minute  ! ' 

At  length  there  came  out  to  Florence  the  first  criticism  of 
the  novel  from  Lady  Burne-Jones  : — 

‘ I am  delighted  that  you  have  written  us  a Tale,  and  long  to  see  it  in 
book  shape.  I read  some  inspiriting  pages  of  it  at  Margaret’s,  and  liked 
it  very  much  in  spite  of  its  being  in  the  dead  letter  of  “ typing,”  and  what 
is  more,  it  impressed  me  as  the  beginning  of  a series  of  life-giving  stories. 
I’m  sure  if  you  only  lay  the  reins  on  the  neck  of  your  pen  it  will  carry  you 
swiftly  over  enchanted  ground  and  be  for  the  happiness  of  us  and  those 
who  come  after  us.  Do  go  on  now  with  it  as  the  business  of  your  life. 
What  a nice  stock-in-trade  is  an  inkpot  and  pen  and  paper.* 

Still  De  Morgan  had  no  thought  of  publishing  his  work,  but 
his  wife  wrote  privately  to  Mr.  Shaw-Sparrow,  ‘ My  husband  has 
committed  a crime — in  other  words  he  has  written  a novel.  The 
book  is,  to  my  thinking,  remarkably  successful  ’ . . . and  in 
extenuation  of  her  possible  partiality  she  explained,  ‘ Our  friend 
Mr.  Mackail,  who  has  read  the  first  half,  pronounced  it  a mixture 
of  Dickens  and  du  Maurier,  with  an  individual  style  of  its  own, 
so,  perhaps,  after  all,  my  judgment  may  not  be  far  out.’  Later, 
De  Morgan  supplemented  this  letter  in  obvious  surprise  at  his 
own  temerity : — 

* Jan.  'iqth,  1905. 

* My  wife  tells  me  you  will  kindly  take  charge  of  this  little  story  of 
mine — it  is  rather  longer  than  Vanity  Fair  ! at  present  ! 

‘ It  has  been  the  main  employment  of  a year  that  I have  scarcely  been 
able  to  use  otherwise  owing  to  abominable  neuritis  in  the  hand ; at  any 
rate  this  scribbling  keeps  me  quiet  and  prevents  my  being  sulky — whether 
others  than  my  personal  friends  who  have  read  it  will  be  amused  by  it 
remains  to  be  seen.  I am  curious  to  see  the  result  of  the  experiment. 

* Three  huge  parcels  of  type-written  stuff  go  off  to  you  to-day — the 
bulk  is  appalling  ! ’ 


JOSEPH  VANCE  237 

About  this  time  Bernard  Shaw’s  play  ‘ You  never  can  tell  ’ 
v/as  running.  To  this  De  Morgan  went,  and  after  the  perform- 
ance he  observed  with  an  air  of  amusement : ‘ Really — “ You 
never  can  tell  ” — perhaps  some  day  I shall  blossom  into  a fully- 
fledged  author ! ’ This  vision,  however,  was  quickly  dispelled. 
Messrs.  Hodder  & Stoughton,  to  whom  the  manuscript  had  been 
sent,  promptly  returned  it  with  a rejection  couched  in  sufficiently 
scathing  terms.  The  length  of  the  MS.,  it  was  pointed  out,  made 
publication  impossible  to  contemplate,  but  even  if  reduced  to 
half  its  then  length,  the  work  was  unlikely  to  be  otherwise  than 
a failure.  Mr.  Shaw-Sparrow  also  wrote  to  De  Morgan  to  ex- 
plain more  fully  the  grounds  of  rejection;  and  in  view  of  after 
events,  the  letter  is  amusing  : — • 

‘ The  first  three  or  four  chapters  caused  the  “ reader  ” to  believe  that 
the  book  was  a find,  and  he  still  thinks  that  Mr.  De  Morgan  will  hit  the 
mark  throughout  a humorous,  Barry-Paine-like  book,  having  a story. 
The  humorous  books  now  passing  out  of  vogue  have  no  story.  Messrs. 
H.  & S.  would  welcome  a love-story  written  with  humour.  The  present 
book,  they  tell  me,  is  much  too  long,  and  too  much  in  the  round-about 
style  fashionable  in  Thackeray’s  time.’ 

De  Morgan  accepted  the  verdict  as  final,  and  unable  to  turn 
Joseph  Vance  into  a ‘ humorous  Barry-Paine-like  book,’  he  put 
the  condemned  manuscript  away  out  of  sight.  Nevertheless, 
bitten  with  the  fascination  of  writing,  he  was  already  hard  at 
work  on  another  story.  ...  'I  was  half-way  through  Alice-for- 
Short,’  he  wrote  later,  ‘ while  Joe  still  lay  in  a drawer  awaiting 
his  Heinemann  ! ’ In  June,  1905,  however,  we  find  him  re- 
marking : ‘ I don’t  want  to  begin  a third  novel  before  I have  got 
some  idea  what  will  become  of  it.  I am  getting  on  with  my 
second  rapidly  ! ’ In  the  interim,  a visitor  to  Florence  inserted 
in  a diary  : — 

' I went  to  call  on  the  De  Morgans  ; both  are  working  from  dawn  to 
dark — -he  writing,  she  painting  glorious  pictures.  The  novels  don’t  get 
published,  and  the  pictures  don’t  get  exhibited  ; but  both  author  and 
artist  seem  supremely  happy  ! ’ 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Dowson  had  unearthed  a copy  of  Joseph 
Vance  from  its  temporary  tomb,  and  had  sent  it  to  Mr.  Lawrence, 
of  the  firm  of  Messrs.  Lawrence  & Bullen.  But  as  the  subse- 
quent silence  lengthened,  De  Morgan  wrote  resignedly  : ‘ It  may 
be  they  are  delaying  a positive  negative  on  the  chance  of  its 
changing  to  a hesitating  positive ! It  seems  to  me  that  it  is 
quite  possible  that  a publisher  may  often  hesitate  from  courtesy 
to  say,  “ Do  take  your  beastly  MS.  away  and  don't  bother  me  to 
read  it,”  when  all  the  while  he  would  command  the  author’s 
esteem  and  sympathy  by  a Johnsonian  expression  of  opinion. 
Or  in  this  case  he  may  be  hesitating  to  say  he  will  think  about  it 
if  it  is  cut  down  to  25,000  words.  I believe  it  is  250,000  ! * 


238  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

The  date  for  the  annual  migration  to  London  arrived  while 
the  fate  of  Joe  still  hung  in  the  balance.  De  Morgan,  as  usual, 
travelled  by  sea,  and  throughout  the  voyage  he  sat  on  deck 
playing  chess,  at  which  he  was  an  adept,  with  a fellow-passenger, 
a Chinaman,  whom  he  had  discovered  to  be  as  insatiable  a de- 
votee of  the  game  as  himself.  The  Chinaman  could  not  speak 
a word  of  English,  and  De  Morgan  could  not  speak  a word  of 
Chinese,  so  at  the  close  of  each  game  the  two  antagonists  rose, 
bowed  solemnly  to  each  other,  and  then  in  silence  resumed  their 
pastime. 

In  England  the  usual  fate  of  absentees  awaited  De  Morgan 
and  his  wife — an  immediate  necessity  for  procuring  servants  and 
a difficulty  in  securing  even  the  most  inefficient.  Art  and  Litera- 
ture alike  had  to  be  cast  aside  before  the  pressing  need  of  the 
moment.  4 I have  been  longing  to  ask  you  to  talk  about  things/ 
De  Morgan  wrote  to  Mrs.  Dowson,  ‘ but  our  Household  has 
bolted,  or  drinks  ; and  this  blessed  day  I have  been  making  the 
beds  and  answering  the  bell,  and  emptying  the  slops — Lord  have 
mercy  upon  us  miserable  sinners  ! ' On  July  4,  1905,  Evelyn 
wrote  tragically  to  Mrs.  Holiday : — 

‘ We  have  been  back  a weary  month,  nothing  but  drunken  cooks 
tumbling  about  like  ninepins,  no  studies,  no  work,  no  peace,  stodgy 
British  incapacity  at  every  turn,  soaked  in  beer. 

‘ We  have  reached  a sort  of  demi-semi  haven  in  the  shape  of  a very 
stout  lady  who  eats  till  her  eyes  start  out  of  her  head,  and  rolls  sleepily 
about  the  house,  yet  it  is  bliss  compared  to  the  beery  ones  of  the  past 
few  weeks  ; but  the  standard  is  lowered  and  we  are  very  humble  indeed 
now,  and  grateful  for  such  very  small  mercies. 

* We  must  have  a good  long  talk  soon.  Have  you  read  that  story  of 
the  doctor  who  tells  how  he  all  but  died,  got  nearly  quite  free  of  his  body, 
and  went  out  into  the  street  ? ’ 

But  even  the  * demi-semi  haven  * soon  surpassed  the  example 
of  her  predecessors  ; and  drastic  measures  became  necessary  to 
ensure  domestic  peace.  Evelyn  having  observed  that  the  de- 
linquent always  got  tipsy  if  she  went  out  for  a holiday  but 
remained  sober  so  long  as  she  stayed  indoors,  attempted  a cure 
by  keeping  her  in  the  house  till  she  showed  signs  of  permanent 
amendment.  During  the  time  of  probation  her  conduct  was  so 
satisfactory  that  at  last  permission  could  no  longer  be  withheld 
for  her  to  go  out,  though  a solemn  promise  was  first  demanded 
from  her  that  she  would  not  touch  any  drink.  Vows  of  total 
abstinence  having  been  thus  extracted,  the  stout  lady  departed ; 
but  alas  ! at  the  time  appointed  for  her  return,  she  did  not  re- 
appear, and  Evelyn  having  sat  up  waiting  anxiously  till  a late 
hour,  at  length  beheld  her  approaching  in  the  condition  antici- 
pated. The  culprit  tottered  into  the  hall,  and  subsiding  into  the 
nearest  chair,  rolled  a beery  eye  on  Evelyn  and  murmured 
dramatically,  ‘ It'sh  not  drink — it’sh  worry  ! * 


JOSEPH  VANCE  239 

The  following  day  Evelyn  had  a visit  from  Lady  Burne-Jones, 
to  whom  she  related  the  episode  ; and  Lady  Burne-Jones,  in 
order  that  she  might  remember  to  hand  it  on  to  her  family  in  its 
pristine  funniness,  made  a note  of  it  on  her  visiting-card.  On 
her  way  home,  however,  she  went  on  to  the  Army  and  Navy 
Stores,  and  in  the  hubbub  of  a crowded  department  failed  to 
make  the  attendant  hear  her  name  and  address.  She  therefore 
handed  her  visiting-card  to  him,  and  was  surprised  to  see  him 
suddenly  turn  crimson  and  dive  abruptly  behind  the  counter,  till, 
glancing  at  the  card  she  had  laid  before  him,  she  saw — 


Lady  Burne-Jones 
It’sh  not  drink — it’sh  worry. 


In  the  midst  of  these  prosaic  afflictions,  on  July  5,  1905,  De 
Morgan,  to  his  astonishment,  received  the  following  letter : — 

W.  Lawrence  to  William  De  Morgan. 

' Dear  Sir, — 

* I have  very  nearly  finished  Joe  Vance.  The  book  is  too  long, 
and  yet  I wish  it  were  twice  the  length. 

‘ If  I had  plenty  of  money  I would  publish  it  without  hesitation,  so 
pray  do  not  let  it  ever  be  said  that  the  book  passed  through  my  hands 
and  I refused  it. 

‘ It  must  be  published  by  one  of  the  great  firms  who  can  afford  to 
advertise  it  properly  for  its  understanding.  After  the  Marie  Corellis  and 
Hall  Caines  it  is  like  a breath  of  pure  sea  air.  Whether  the  public  are  so 
soaked  with  bad  English  and  melodramatic  twaddle  that  they  will  refuse 
Joe,  I cannot  say,  but  if  they  don’t  fall  in  love  with  the  Doctor  and  Lossie 
and  forgive  Joe  for  all  his  faults  they  must  be  either  fools  or  knaves,  or 
both.  I should  very  much  like  to  have  a talk  with  you  about  the  whole 
matter.  . . .’ 

That  same  day  De  Morgan  replied  in  some  amazement : * I 
cannot  tell  you  how  pleased  I am  at  the  receipt  of  your  letter — ■ 
only — am  I awake  or  dreaming  ? — that  seems  to  me  the  first 
point  to  settle.  . . . However,  awake  or  asleep,  thank  you 
cordially  for  your  appreciation,  and  thank  you  still  more  for  your 
more  than  appreciation — if,  as  misgiving  tells  me,  that  is  how  to 
describe  it.  . . . However,  if  I don’t  wake  up  and  find  a letter 
saying  “ please  send  for  your  slow  and  unnatural  MS.,”  I shall 
try  to  keep  asleep  till  after  I have  seen  you,  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  visit ! ’ 

The  following  day  Lawrence  wrote 

* I finished  Joe  last  night  and  then  began  to  read  him  again.  I don’t 
want  to  raise  your  spirits  too  much  so  I may  tell  you  that,  in  the  main,  I 
have  been  uniformly  unsuccessful  in  the  novels  I have  liked  well.  Your 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


240 

book  appeals  to  me  more  than  any  I have  ever  read  in  MS. — ergo  it  will 
be  most  unsuccessful. 

* My  opinion  is  of  no  value  whatever — save  in  its  honesty.’ 

4 1 shall  not  allow  myself  to  be  depressed  by  the  circumstance 
you  mention/  replied  De  Morgan,  who  seemed  to  regard  his 
present  venture  much  in  the  same  light  as  his  former  scientific 
experiments ; 4 chiefly  I am  curious  to  see  what  Joe  will  do  if 
he  is  put  in  the  water  to  swim  for  himself  ! I shall  be  greatly 
delighted  if  he  reversed  your  experience — anyhow  shall  hope  we 
may  talk  out  a way  of  putting  it  to  the  test.’ 

The  upshot  of  the  interview  which  followed  was  that  Mr. 
Lawrence  carried  off  the  manuscript  and,  as  he  afterwards 
described,  staggered  with  his  heavy  load  into  Mr.  Heinemann’s 
office,  where  he  deposited  it  in  front  of  the  publisher — a solid 
block  of  thin  type-written  sheets  which  stood  about  a foot  and 
a half  in  height.  Thereupon  the  following  terse  conversation 
took  place. 

Mr.  Lawrence  (firmly).  4 Here  is  what  seems  to  me  a most 
remarkable  book.  You  have  got  to  read  it ! ’ 

Mr.  Heinemann  (aghast).  4 That  111  be  d if  I do  ! * 

Nevertheless  the  manuscript  was  read  and  recognized  as  a 
masterpiece ; and  ere  long  Mr.  Heinemann  himself  was  on  his 
way  across  the  Atlantic  with  early  proofs.  The  publication  of 
Joe  in  England  and  America  was  decided  upon  ; and  when  the 
date  once  more  came  round  for  De  Morgan’s  return  to  Florence, 
be  wrote  to  his  first  critic,  Lady  Burne-Jones,  full  of  amusement 
at  the  novelty  of  the  situation  in  which  he  found  himself. 

William  De  Morgan  to  Lady  Burne-Jones. 

* 26  Oct.,  1905. 

* Dear  Georgie, — 

‘ We  are  off  on  Wednesday — which  is  the  same  as  Tuesday,  all  but. 
Sunday  afternoon  we  have  to  stay  at  home  to  show  pictures  to  some 
friends  while  they  talk  to  one  another  on  current  topics. 

‘ We  shall  be  horribly  sorry  to  miss  seeing  you  if  it  must  be  so.  But 
we  shall  try  to  prevent  it  by  seizing  whatever  chance  offers.  ...  It  must 
be  that  way,  for  you  may  fancy  how  pushed  we  are  at  the  last. 

‘ Matters  are  complicated  by  the  fact  that  our  Household  is  to  marry 
a sculptor  on  the  morning  we  depart  ! ! Consider  the  fiancdes  of  the 
field  that  cook  not,  neither  do  they  lay  the  cloth. 

‘ Yes,  Joe  is  being  set  up  in  America  and  his  author  is  ditto  ditto  in 
London — seeing  what  a good  opinion  his  Publisher’s  autumn  announce- 
ments have  of  him  ! — He  means  to  be  immortal  as  long  as  he  can — then 
will  come  the  book.  . . . 

* So  Mrs.  Beatty  1 is  gone — one  more  Chelsea  memory — we  are  getting 
fewer — but  it’s  all  right,  I’m  confident. 

* We  shall  try  to  occur — always 

* Yours  affectly, 

‘ Wm.  De  Morgan.* 


' One  of  the  former  painters  and  decorators  at  the  Chelsea  factory. 


“The  Little  Sea-Maid” 

Evelyn  De  Morgan  fecit 

“She  had  sold  her  tongue  to  a witph  that  she  might  become  an  Earth-maiden, 
all  for  love  of  an  Earth-Prince  ; and  when  evening  came  she  would  steal  away 
from  the  Prince’s  castle  to  cool  her  aching  feet  in  the  sea.  But  alas  ! she  was 
dumb.  And  when  she  danced,  a pain  as  of  cutting  knives  was  in  her  feet.”- — 
Hans  Christum  Andersen. 

[The  little  Sea-maid  is  seen  seated  upon  a rock  upon  which  is  growing  velvety- 
green  sea-weed  ; beside  her  is  a piece  of  lovely  crimson  drapery.  In  the  distance 
the  Prince’s  Castle  shows  in  purple  relief  against  a clear  lemon-and-rose  tinted 
sky,  while  a rising  moon  is  shedding  a silver  light  on  the  blue  water.] 


JOSEPH  VANCE  243 

Mr.  Lawrence  had  previously  urged  De  Morgan  to  condense 
the  book,  and  De  Morgan,  in  consequence,  removed  about 
20,000  to  30,000  words — an  excision  which,  although  imperative 
in  view  of  the  exigencies  of  modern  publication,  is  otherwise  tc 
be  regretted,  since  the  public  thereby  lost  certain  delightful 
scenes  and  conversations — especially  the  love-affairs  of  Vi, 
Lossie’s  sister,  which  were  erased  bodily.  To  the  author’s  mind, 
these  omissions  left  the  story  with  gaps  noticeable  where  the 
narrative  in  the  original  had  at  first  run  smoothly  and  leisurely 
to  a conclusion  which  was  inevitable  : ‘ I never  cut  anything 
out,’  De  Morgan  complained,  ‘ but  that  I do  not  afterwards  feel 
it  has  left  an  hiatus  which  has  destroyed  the  sequence.’  Mean- 
while he  went  to  immense  pains  to  ensure  that  all  his  facts  were 
correct,  and  referred  to  experts  on  every  subject  respecting  which 
he  felt  that  his  knowledge  might  be  at  fault.  ‘ I am  especially 
anxious  about  improbabilities,’  he  wrote ; * Authors  do  make 
such  frightful  blunders  ! There  ought  to  be  a profession  of 
Literary  men’s  blunders  censors  who  could  be  paid  by  them  at 
so  much  a blunder  detected.’  None  the  less,  at  the  last  moment 
he  was  saved  from  inaccuracy  on  a subject  of  which  he  admitted 
ignorance.  It  is  said  that  the  proofs  were  actually  in  the 
press  when  Mrs.  Mackail  hurried  round  to  point  out  to  him  a slip 
of  the  pen  which  she  had  overlooked  when  reading  the  MS. 
‘ You  have  said  that  the  butcher  left  the  dripping  at  the  door  ! ’ she 
exclaimed  breathlessly,  ‘ and  you  see  butchers  don’t  leave  drip- 
ping at  doors  ! ’ De  Morgan  thankfully  and  hurriedly  removed 
the  dripping  from  ‘ standing  in  the  place  where  it  ought  not ! ’ 

Throughout  this  period,  however,  he  was  obsessed  by  the  idea 
that  when  his  book  was  actually  published  his  brief  satisfaction 
would  be  at  an  end  ; in  the  interval,  one  of  the  events  to  which 
he  looked  forward  with  almost  childish  pleasure  was  the  thought 
of  sending  out  a copy  of  his  first  novel  to  his  sister,  who  was  then 
in  Egypt.  Threatened  with  phthisis,  Mary  De  Morgan  had  been 
ordered  to  live  abroad,  and  had  subsequently  undertaken  a 
strange  task  which  interested  her  greatly — the  charge  of  a 
Reformatory  for  children  in  Cairo. 

‘ You  may  fancy  [wrote  De  Morgan  to  Mrs.  Henry  Holiday,  on 
December  4,  from  Florence]  my  disgust  at  not  having  Joseph  by 
Xmas  day  to  send  out  to  my  sister  Mary,  in  Egypt — (Divinity  was  always 
my  line  !)  But  don’t  do  more  about  him  till  you  receive  your  presentation 
copy  from  the  author,  who  is  very  much  interested  that  you  should  read 
him  (Joe)  to  see  if  you  sympathize  with  a strong  impression  the  Waldstein 
sonata  produced  upon  him.  No  doubt  Joe  was  wrong,  as  he  was  quite 
ignorant  of  music.  But  his  author  would  like  to  know  how  it  strikes  a 
contemporary. 

‘ He  is  afraid  an  immortality  founded  on  his  publisher’s  too  flattering 
opinion  may  be  cut  off  in  its  prime  by  the  appearance  of  the  vol.  itself. 
Meanwhile  he  is  enjoying  it,  and  strutting  about  like  any  peacock  ! 

Q 


z\2  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

' I wish  we  could  be  in  London  to  see  the  Show.* 1  Few  men  can  show 
such  a forty  years’  work  (I  can  speak  to  the  forty  and  more,  personally) — 
as  H.  H. 

‘ It  was  a curious  pleasantry  of  Fate  to  name  him  Holiday — but  I 
interpret  it  as  an  insinuation  on  Fate’s  part  that  a successful  day’s  work 
is  the  best  of  Holidays,  and  the  best  of  Holidays’s  is  a very  successful  day’s 
work  indeed  ! — I agree  with  F. 

* ...  I admire  Miss  Brickdale’s  work  immensely,  with  a faint  sense  of 
a Shakespearian  clown  somewhere.  It  is  a pleasure  to  think  that  such 
good  work  is  so  successful.  Evelyn  is  busy  to  a degree — ioo  centigrade, 
circa. 

* Love  to  the  other  angle  of  your  triangle  and  yourself,  from  both  of 

us.’ 

Nearly  two  months  later,  De  Morgan,  feverishly  correcting 
the  proofs  of  Joseph  Vance , snatched  time  to  write  his  congratu- 
lations to  Mr.  Mackail  on  seeing  the  announcement  in  the  Spec- 
tator that  the  latter  had  been  appointed  Professor  of  Poetry  in 
the  University  of  Oxford.  * Mary,  as  you  know,’  he  adds,  ' is 
in  Egypt.  Accounts  of  her  read  well  and  are,  I hope,  authentic. 
Probably  she  will  be  back  before  I can  send  Joseph  out  to  her — 
as  he  takes  so  long  in  publishing.  Why,  here  have  I actually 
completed  two  more  stories  and  the  proofs  of  Joe  only  half  cor- 
rected ! I discovered  frightful  blunders  in  him — but  there  ! 
what  does  it  matter  ? As  far  as  I can  make  out,  modern  Fiction 
consists  almost  entirely  of  solecisms  ! ' In  the  following  letter 
from  his  wife,  however,  there  is  no  mention  of  the  event  which 
was  impending : — 

Evelyn  De  Morgan  to  Professor  Mackail. 

* 22 nd  Feb.,  1906. 

' Dear  Jack, — 

‘ I must  add  a line  to  send  my  own  individual  congrats.  We  were 
so  delighted  when  we  read  the  news  in  the  Spectator  yesterday — a belated 
Spectator  that  reaches  us  after  the  fact,  so  to  speak,  but  is  nevertheless 
Dur  only  newspaper  from  England.  This  sounds  very  Italian  and  unpatrio- 
tic, but  we  are  both  getting  very  cosmopolitan  I fear,  and  have  a general 
tendency  to  look  upon  a two  days’  old  English  paper  as  perfect  for  wrapping- 
up  purposes  but  otherwise  tedious  and  bulky,  and  we  go  in  for  Italian 
papers  because  they  are  slight  and  flimsy  as  to  news,  and  one  need  not 
read  them  ; and  then  we  discover  a real  piece  of  good  news  like  this  and 
realize  that  we  are  savages  in  the  backwoods,  or  we  should  have  known 
ill  about  it. 

' When  are  you  coming  out  to  Florence  again  ? I am  sure  Angela  2 
nust  be  wanting  another  necklace.  Only  give  us  time,  that  is  all  we  ask, 
md  we  will  provide  you  with  any  abomination  in  the  way  of  weather  you 
lave  a fancy  for,  “ From  Greenland’s  icy  Mountains,”  etc. 

‘ Love  to  Margaret, 

* Yours  ever, 

‘ Evelyn  De  Morgan.’ 


1 Mr.  Henry  Holiday  was  having  an  exhibition  of  his  pictures. 

1 The  recipient’s  daughter. 


JOSEPH  VANCE  243 

It  was  while  the  publication  of  Joseph  Vance  still  tarried,  and 
while  the  first  advertisements  of  his  advent  were  appearing,  that 
one  morning  De  Morgan  was  electrified  to  discover  his  fictitious 
hero  had  taken  an  unexpectedly  concrete  form. 

{Louis)  Joseph  Vance  to  William  De  Morgan. 

* Good  Ground,  Long  Island,  N.Y.,  U.S.A., 

* June  18 th,  1906. 

* Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan,— 

‘ I am  sure  you  will  appreciate  how  uncommon  are  apt  to  be  the 
sensations  of  one  who  wakes  up  to  find  himself  famous  ; especially  when 
that  one  has  been  striving  ever  so  earnestly  to  make  himself  famous  by 
writing,  rather  than  by  being  written  about. 

* My  London  publisher  Mr.  Grant  Richards,  in  a letter  of  recent  date, 
enclosed  me  a clipping  from  an  English  publication,  to  the  effect  that : 

‘ “ Joseph  Vance  ” is  the  title  of  a novel  by  Mr.  William  De  Morgan, 
which  Mr.  Heinemann  is  publishing.  It  is  said  to  be  a “ complete  human 
document .”  ’ 

‘ Naturally  I want  to  know  about  it.  Wouldn’t  you  ? It  is  a curious 
fact,  and  one  that  may  interest  you,  that,  from  the  beginning  of  the 
history  of  the  Vance  family  in  America,  there  has  always  been  a Joseph 
Vance,  the  son  of  Wilson  Vance.  My  grandfather  was  a Joseph,  my  father 
a Wilson,  my  son  a Wilson,  and  his  son  will  be  a Joseph  if ! 

‘ Furthermore,  aside  from  this  worthless  representative,  who  writes 
stories  of  mystery  and  adventure  for  a living,  there  are  to  my  knowledge 
two  other  Joseph  Vances  extant  on  this  side  of  the  water.  One,  Lee 
Joseph,  flourisheth  like  a green  bay -tree,  editing  a trade  journal  in  the 
city  of  New  York  (my  winter  home)  ; and  the  other,  plain  Joseph,  is  (I 
believe)  a prosperous  farmer  in  north  western  Ohio  (whence  comes  my 
father’s  family). 

' So  you  see  there  are  more  than  one  who  will  be  uncommonly  inter- 
ested in  your  Joseph  Vance. 

* And  right  here  and  now  (in  our  American  idiom)  I want  to  say  that 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  you’ve  made  so  free  with  our  name,  I think  you 
should  try  to  balance  matters  by  sending  me  a copy  of  the  book — for 
the  success  of  which  I beg  you  to  accept  my  best  wishes. 

‘ I’d  like  to  know  how  it  feels  to  be  a “ human  document  ” — especially 
a “ complete  ” one. 

* Believe  me, 

* I am,  faithfully  yours, 

* (Louis)  Joseph  Vance.’ 

De  Morgan’s  first  surprised  answer  to  the  materialization  of 
his  hero  has  not  survived  ; but  shortly  afterwards  we  find  him 
addressing  the  latter  as  follows  : — 

‘ I can’t  tell  you  how  funny  it  seems  to  me  to  be  writing  to 
a real  live  “ Joseph  Vance  ” after  200,000  words  of  writing  about 
a fictitious  one  ! 

‘ Very  many  thanks  for  your  letter  ! I really  believe  the 
“ human  document  ” is  on  the  point  of  publication,  or  the 
Spectator  wouldn’t  say  so.  I hope  it’s  all  true  ! but  sometimes 
I really  doubt  it.  A party  who,  after  a lifetime  spent  on  Pottery, 
suddenly  takes  to  pottering,  may  well  think  he  is  dreaming  when 
he  sees  his  book  announced  just  under  the  most  widely  circulated 


244  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

book  of  the  moment.  For  Heinemann’s  advt.  shows  my  book 
just  under  The  Jungle.  And  even  inventing  mills  and  sieves 
and  bicycles *  1 doesn't  warrant  a belief  that  the  inventor  can 

write  fiction. 

* I am  writing  to  Heinemann  to  send  you  a copy  as  soon  as 
he  is  qualified  to  do  so.  I hope  to  receive  one  myself  now  at 
any  moment. 

‘ But  how  strange  that  the  name  should  chance  on  two  title- 
pages  simultaneously  in  such  a totally  undesigned  manner  l 
The  complete  disconnexion  of  one  with  the  other  is  almost  de- 
monstrable. Not  quite  though — because  if  I saw  a work  of  yours 
before  1901,  the  name  may  easily  have  remained  in  my  memory 
without  my  knowing  why.  The  first  chapter,  written  as  a ran- 
dom experiment  to  see  what  I could  do  with  fiction,  was  written 
thenabout,  and  forgotten  by  me — shoved  among  some  business 
papers — but  found  by  my  wife  a year  later  {circa).  She  insisted 
on  my  following  on,  and  the  20  pages  became  600  ! Now  the 
only  thing  I know  of  against  my  having  picked  your  name  from 
a book  of  yours,  is  that  after  using  it,  I had  a powerful  misgiving 
that  in  my  youth — my  early  Victorian  youth — I had  seen  a small 
book  called  Joseph  Vance,  Carman.  So  much  so  that  I asked 
a friend  to  hunt  for  it,  at  Stationers’  Hall,  etc.  But  nothing  was 
found.  If  it  were  to  turn  up,  I should  fancy  it  would  be  the 
source  of  my  J.  V. 

‘ I hope  you  will  not  be  displeased  with  either  Joe  Vance  or 
Christopher  his  father.  The  latter  certainly  comes  on  the  stage 
the  worse  for  liquor,  and  gets  into  a fight.  But  he  changes  a 
good  deal  in  the  course  of  the  story. 

‘ I suppose  the  book  was  called  “ a complete  human  docu- 
ment ” because  the  Appendix  had  not  been  cut  out.  I hope 
you  will  get  as  far  and  not  think  Appendicitis  necessary. 

4 I am  very  curious  to  see  your  work  also.  ...  I hope 
every  one  who  reads  your  book  will  read  mine  in  consequence  and 
vice  versa.  This  will  promote  healthy  circulation.  What  the 
Italians  call  “ felicissimi  augure  ” for  both  of  us  ! ’ 

Mr.  Vance  had  meanwhile  introduced  himself  to  De  Morgan 
more  fully  as  an  Author,  forty  years  younger  than  the  author 
of  Joseph  Vance  ; * I peddle  words  for  a living,’  he  explained  in 
an  amusing  letter,  ‘ and  write  tales  of  battle,  murder  and  sudden 
death,  complicated  with  mystery,  and  salted  with  a modicum 
of  “ heart  interest,”  to  please  the  public.  ...  I even  compose 


1 De  Morgan  had  invented  a new  duplex  gearing  for  a bicycle,  which 
was  actuated  pneumatically,  with  two  independent  gears,  for  wheels  and 
chain.  On  either  side  of  the  handle  bar  was  a rubber  bag  ; the  squeezing 
of  one  made  the  wheel  cease  to  be  free,  of  the  other  changed  the  gear. 
‘ I kept  the  patent  alive  as  long  as  I could  afford  it,’  he  wrote,  * but  after 

I had  spent  some  £300  on  it,  I allowed  it  to  lapse.’ 


JOSEPH  VANCE  245 

the  rattle-te-bang  brand  of  romance  that  brings  me  my  bread 
on  the  type- writer  “ thinking  into  the  keys/'  and  there  you  have 
the  full  measure  of  my  depravity.  But  I beg  your  charity. 
I’m  a youngster — so  there’s  hope  for  me  ! ’ And  he  adds  : — 

4 Coincidences  multiply ; that  the  publication  of  my  book  should 
tread  so  close  upon  the  heels  of  yours  in  England  seems  not  half  so  strange 
to  me  as  the  fact  that,  when  I dropped  into  Putnam's  book-shop,  on 
Twenty-third  Street  (New  York)  a few  days  since,  the  very  first  thing 
that  met  my  eyes  was  a thick  red  volume,  labelled  as  to  its  back  “ Joseph 
Vance — De  Morgan — Henry  Holt,”  nestling  cheek  by  jowl  with  a thin 
green  book  similarly  stamped  “ The  Private  War — Louis  Joseph  Vance — 
Appletons  ! ” I didn’t  buy  the  human  document  because  I was  counting 
upon  your  promise  to  send  me  a copy.  Altogether  I find  that  my  biographer 
puts  me  to  the  blush,  with  the  wisdom  of  his  years  and  the  variety  of 
his  achievement.  Books,  bicycles  and  Pottery  and  Sieves  and  Mills  ! 
Goodness  ! I’m  humbled  who  am  only  a Lit’ry  Feller  and  have  never 
been  anything  else  save  a husband  and  father.  The  more  honour  is  mine, 
that  your  book  should  bear  my  name  ! 

4 Thank  you  for  your  kind  and  cordial  letter.  I’m  wishing  you  all 
sorts  of  good  reviews  and  heavy  sales  for  J.  V .,  and  I am  grateful  to 
Mrs.  De  Morgan  for  having  searched  until  she  found  the  talent  you’d 
buried  in  the  napkin.  . . . 

4 Do  you  know  (and  this  is  judging  mostly  from  my  own  experience) 
I’ve  a notion  that  most  of  the  good  books  are  due  to  good  wives  ? ’ 

At  length  the  novel  Joseph  Vance  put  in  a belated  appear- 
ance, and  one  of  the  first  copies  was  dispatched  to  Mrs.  Maisie 
Dowson  with  the  following  inscription  : — 

To  a lady  who  was  very  instrumental  in  bringing  about  the 
publication  of  ‘ Joseph  Vance/ 

M istress  Maisie,  Mistress  Maisie, 

Ami  dreaming,  drunk  or  crazy, 

I f it’s  true  that  Joseph  Vance  is 
S afely  launched — and  circumstances 
I ndicate  that  such  the  case  is — 

E ndless  credit’s  Mistress  Maisie’s  l 
D ifiiculties  of  this  distich 
O nly  make  the  writer’s  fist  itch 
W ith  its  consciousness  of  platitude 
S triving  to  relate  his  gratitude ; 

O verstatement’s  none  so  aisy — - 
N ever  doubt  it,  Mistress  Maisie  ! 

* Verses  are  not  much  to  swear  by,’  he  added  apologetically ; 

* but  I can  tell  you  acrostics  are  not  easy  literature.’ 

At  this  interesting  moment  in  De  Morgan’s  career,  when  his 
fate  as  an  author  hung  in  the  balance,  Mrs.  Ady  (Julia  Cart- 
wright) relates  as  follows  : ‘ In  the  summer  of  1906,  I had  the 
good  fortune  to  meet  him  at  a country  house,  where  he  was 
staying  with  one  of  his  oldest  friends.  We  had  often  met  be- 
fore, generally  at  Burne-Jones’s  house,  and  as  I sat  by  his  side 
at  dinner,  we  recalled  those  happy  times  and  sighed  for  the  days 


246  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

and  the  friends  that  were  no  more.  George  Howard,  Lord 
Carlisle,  who  happened  to  be  my  other  neighbour,  joined  in  our 
conversation,  and  agreed  with  all  De  Morgan  said  of  the  brilliant 
play  of  fantasy,  the  wit  and  tenderness,  the  indefinable  charm 
which  made  our  beloved  painter  the  most  delightful  companion 
in  the  world.  And  with  tears  in  his  eyes  De  Morgan  said  how 
it  is  always  thus  in  life.  ‘ We  fail  to  realize  the  importance  of 
the  present  and  let  the  good  days  go  by,  without  any  attempt 
to  keep  a record  of  our  friends’  words  and  actions,  until  it  is 
too  late.’ 

‘ Towards  the  end  of  dinner  he  dropped  his  voice  and  whis- 
pered that  he  had  a secret  to  tell  me.  “ The  fact  is,”  he  said, 
“ I have  perpetrated  the  crime  or  folly — whichever  you  choose 
to  call  it — of  writing  a novel,  which  has  just  been  published,  and 
what  is  more  wonderful  I have  in  my  pocket  a flattering  review 
of  the  book,  in  to-day’s  Spectator  / ” He  went  on  to  tell  me  how 
the  story  of  Joseph  Vance  had  grown  into  being  . . . till  the 
actual  writing  became  a pleasure  and  the  book  took  its  present 
shape.  The  speaker’s  earnestness  and  animation,  I remember, 
excited  Lord  Carlisle’s  curiosity,  and  after  dinner  he  asked  me 
if  what  he  had  caught  of  our  conversation  could  be  true  and  that 
De  Morgan  had  really  written  a novel.  There  was  no  denying 
the  fact,  and  soon  we  were  all  reading  Joseph  Vance  and  the 
review  which  had  given  its  author  so  much  satisfaction. 

‘ From  the  first,  the  success  of  the  novel  was  phenomenal. 
. . . The  critics  were  unanimous  in  their  chorus  of  praise,  in 
spite  of  the  unusual  length  of  the  book,  which  seemed  likely 
to  prove  a stumbling-block  . . . and  the  public  on  both  sides 
of  the  Atlantic  hailed  the  advent  of  a new  star  on  the  literary 
horizon.’ 

No  one  was  more  astonished  than  its  author  at  the  immediate 
furore  with  which  Joseph  Vance  was  greeted.  He  had  called  it 
4 An  ill-written  Autobiography  ’ and  a critic,  in  a phrase  often 
subsequently  quoted,  promptly  pointed  out  that  ‘ the  “ ill- 
writing  ” is  in  truth  consummate  art/  The  Spectator,  as  indi- 
cated, led  off  with  avish  eulogy.  So  far  from  cavilling  at  the 
length  of  the  narrative,  it  dwelt  emphatically  on  the  fact  that  if 
the  writers  of  olden  times — Dickens,  Thackeray  and  George 
Eliot — could  come  to  life  again,  they  would,  in  comparison  with 
their  work,  find  most  of  our  modern  literature  ‘ thin  and  anae- 
mic ’ ; and  it  added — 

‘ It  is  refreshing  to  find  that  one  stalwart  champion  of  the  older  school 
survives.  Mr.  William  De  Morgan  follows,  even  in  its  lesser  mannerisms, 
the  method  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray.  Slowly  and  patiently  he  builds 
up,  not  an  incident  or  a career,  or  even  tne  whole  career  of  one  man,  or 
woman,  but  the  whole  careers  of  a large  circle  of  friends.  He  gives  a true 
and  complete  picture  of  certain  forms  of  life  . . . but  we  have  never 


JOSEPH  VANCE  247 

for  a moment  a doubt  about  the  reality  of  the  story  he  tells.  . . . The 
book  is  a remarkable  novel — a fine  novel  by  whatever  standard  we  judge 
it  . . . every  character  down  to  the  humblest  has  the  stamp  of  a genuine 
humanity.’ 

The  rest  of  the  Press  followed  in  similar  vein  ; and  in  America 
even  more  than  in  England,  the  book  was  welcomed  with  a pro 
longed  storm  of  applause.  There  are,  in  brief,  two  tides  to 
success,  the  one  to  coincide  happily  with  the  fashion  of  the 
moment,  to  float  effectively  on  the  flood  of  current  opinion  ; the 
other — but  this  is  given  only  to  the  strong — to  stem  and  sur- 
mount it.  This  last  achievement  was  De  Morgan's.  ‘ To  a highly 
nervous  and  irritably  impatient  reading  public,'  remarked  Professor 
Lyon  Phelps,  ‘ a man  whose  name  had  no  commercial  value  in 
literature  gravely  offered  in  the  year  of  grace  1906  an  " ill- written 
autobiography  " of  two  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  words  i 
Well,  the  result  is  what  might  not  have  been  expected.  If  ever 
a confirmed  optimist  had  reason  to  feel  justification  of  his  faith, 
Mr.  De  Morgan  must  have  seen  it  in  the  reception  given  to  his 
first  novel.'  And  later  the  keynote  of  this  success  is  defined  : 
* Joseph  Vance  is  not  so  much  a beautifully  written  or  exquisitely 
constructed  novel  as  it  is  an  encyclopaedia  of  life.  We  meet  real 
people,  we  hear  delightful  conversation,  and  the  tremendously 
interesting  personality  of  the  author  is  everywhere  apparent 
...  It  vibrates  with  the  echoes  of  a long  gallery  whose  walls 
are  crowded  with  pictures.’1 

Yet  the  success  which  the  book  attained  was  not  at  first 
anticipated  by  Heinemann,  whose  ardour  had  been  damped  by 
the  difficulty  he  had  experienced  in  getting  it  taken  at  all  in 
America.  Mrs.  Drew,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  read  an  early 
copy,  and  wrote  to  the  publisher  to  say  that  she  considered  it 
a remarkable  book,  but  that  she  hoped  in  a second  edition  the 
print  would  be  better,  as  she  could  ‘ recommend  no  friend  ovei 
forty  to  read  it.’  ‘I  am  glad  you  like  the  novel,'  Heinemann 
responded,  ‘ but  with  regard  to  the  print,  it  is  very  unlikely  a 
second  edition  will  be  called  for.'  Eighteen  months  later  he  sent 
her  a volume  of  Joseph  Vance  in  better  type.  It  was  the  eighth 
edition.  ‘ The  entire  world,’  she  wrote  before  that  date,  quoting 
from  a review,  ‘ seems  now  divided  into  Vancers  and  non- 
Vancers  ! ' 

The  criticism  of  his  work,  however,  which  had  the  greatest 
interest  for  the  author  came  from  his  personal  friends,  a few  oi 
whose  letters  may  be  quoted  here,  each  in  its  unstudied  enthu- 
siasm being  typical  of  its  particular  writer.  One  of  the  first  was 
from  his  erstwhile  playmate  at  Fordhook,  Lord  Lovelace,  whose 

1 Essays  on  Modern  Novelists.  William  De  Morgan.  (Macmillan.) 
By  William  Lyon  Phelps,  Professor  of  English  Literature  at  Yale  Univer 
sity*  U.S.A. 


248  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

letter  likewise  bears  reference  to  another  matter.  For  while 
Joseph  Vance  was  making  his  debut , Evelyn  De  Morgan  had  been 
persuaded  to  have  an  Exhibition  of  her  pictures  in  Bruton 
Street.  There  her  work  had  attracted  considerable  attention, 
and,  among  other  purchasers,  Lord  Lovelace  had  bought  a 
beautiful  little  picture  illustrative  of  the  Five  Mermaids  in  the 
Fairy  Tale  by  Hans  Andersen,  a sequel  to  one  she  had  painted 
previously  of  the  solitary  ‘ Little  Seamaid  who  loved  the  Prince.’ 

The  Earl  of  Lovelace  to  William  De  Morgan . 

* July,  1906, 

‘ Ockham  Park, 

‘ Ripley,  Surrey. 

* My  dear  De  Morgan, — 

‘ Your  interesting  and  delightful  book  arrived  last  week  just  as  I 
was  starting  for  London  whence  I returned  to  the  midst  of  a party  here 
which  has  only  left  this  morning,  so  somehow  I never  found  a moment 
to  write  even  a line  of  thanks  together  with  much  appreciation  of  the  three 
or  four  opening  chapters  which  I read  at  breakfast  the  morning  Joey 
Vance  came  here. 

* My  first  impression  was  like  that  from  Treasure  Island  or  A Man  oj 
Mark,  a somewhat  startled  amusement  at  the  outrageous  company  of 
the  fighting  circles  you  introduce  one  to— mot  unmixed  with  sympathy  for 
the  throwing  of  the  bottle  which  drops  so  miraculously  into  the  horrible 
sweep’s  eye.  It  made  me  think  of  the  Irish  account  of  a scrimmage,  “ I 
dropped  my  stick  on  Tim’s  head  and  unfortunately  he  died.” 

‘ I shall  now  be  able  to  continue  to  improve  my  acquaintance  with  the 
charming  Miss  Lossie  and  talk  to  you  about  her  and  your  other  creations 
by  the  time  you  and  Mrs.  De  Morgan  come  here.  Her  creation  of  the  five 
elder  Mermaids  is  now  here,  provisionally  hung,  for  the  place  requires 
some  readjustment  on  account  of  light,  and  has  been  much  admired. 
Francis  Buxton  said  if  its  beauty  could  not  receive  justice  and  a suffi- 
ciently good  place,  he  would  be  delighted  to  relieve  us  of  the  difficulty  ! 
But  we  are  not  going  to  let  it  be  carried  off  elsewhere.  I propose  to  hang 
up  underneath  the  words  of  Hans  Andersen  (in  Danish)  how  the  five 
sisters  floated  up  arm  in  arm  for  many  an  evening  hour  over  the  waters.’ 

A somewhat  melancholy  interest  is  attached  to  this  letter,  as 
its  writer  died  the  following  month  ; but  in  the  interval  he  had 
completed  his  perusal  of  Joseph  Vance , and  had  been  one  of  the 
first  to  point  out  that  De  Morgan’s  book  was  ‘ the  work  of  an 
idealist  with  realistic  details,’  and  how  curiously  but  happily  it 
combined  ‘ the  sentiments  and  traditions  of  the  Victorian  age 
with  the  more  analytical  methods  of  to-day.’  Other  letters  ran 
as  follows  : — 

Sir  William  Richmond  to  William  De  Morgan. 

‘ 1906. 

* Have  you  seen  the  Spectator — get  it  ! Such  eulogium  of  your  novel  ; 
two  Cols. — I do  congratulate  you,  old  fellow.  After  such  an  article  your 
book  should  sell  like  wildfire.  My  most  affectionate  congratulations  to 
you  both„ 

* Yours  ever, 

‘ W.  Richmond.’ 


The  Five  Mermaids 
[A  Sequel  to  the  Little  Sea-Maid] 

Once  in  the  night  time,  her  sisters  came  arm  in  arm.  Sadly  they  sang  as  they  floated  above  the  water.”— Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

[In  the  x>ossession  of  Mary,  Countess  of  Lovelace. 


JOSEPH  VANCE  249 

Mrs . Morris  to  William  De  Morgan . 

* July  17 th,  1906. 

‘ The  Old  Hospital,  Burford. 

* Dear  Bill, — 

* I don’t  think  I have  ever  written  you  a letter  before,  but  this  ia 
such  a very  grand  occasion  that  I feel  I must  put  pen  to  paper  and  say 
how  happy  your  book  has  made  me.  I have  not  laughed  so  much  for 
many  a long  year.  Lossie  is  delightful,  I had  to  stop  reading  when  she 
had  gone  to  India  ; but  started  afresh  when  I remembered  there  was 
more  Mr.  Vance  to  come.  What  a dear  he  is  ! — I can’t  write  half  what  is 
in  my  mind  to  say  in  praise  of  the  book,  letter-writing  being  a lost  art  with 
me  now. 

‘ May  you  give  us  many  more  books  is  my  earnest  wish. 

‘ Yours  affectionately, 

‘ Jane  Morris.* 

Mrs.  Henry  Holiday  to  William  De  Morgan . 

‘ Hawkshead, 

‘ Ambleside. 

* July , 1906. 

* My  dear  William, — 

* I have  never  enjoyed  the  reading  of  any  new  book  more  in  my 
life.  I have  only  as  yet  finished  the  4th  chapter — but  I have  re-read  them 
many  times — always  aloud  to  myself,  for  fear  I lost  the  full  delight  of 
either  manner  or  matter.  Mr.  Vance  is  quite  as  great  a creation  as 
“ Janey  ” — and  you  never  can  tell  when  she  begins,  where  she  will  end. 
She  is  a joy.  I delight  in  each  one  of  your  creations — from  the  Sweep  who 
butted,  all  the  theological  parts,  to  the  child  who  sucked  his  night-gown — 
the  “ Cards  ” — in  fact,  all  of  them. 

' Winifred  1 comes  to-night — we  shall  set-to  at  once,  and  I shall  be 
“ a prevarication,”  for  I shall  have  to  make  believe  I haven’t  read  any  of 
it.  And  when  we  go  back  home  next  month  we  could  not  bear  not  to 
read  it  to  Henry — and  all  the  visitors  (the  best  of  course  only)  shall  have 
bits  read  to  them  as  soon  as  they  are  seated.  It’s  like  nothing  else  at 
all — but  it  recalls  the  time  when  Dickens  first  came  out  and  the  wonder 
of  it  all.  Not  that  I mean  you  are  like  him  or  anyone  else — the  whole 
thing  is  so  young  and  fresh  and  vigorous — you  might  be  17. 

‘ I can’t  pick  and  choose  my  words.  I only  feel  in  a tumult  of  happi- 
ness. I send  you  my  most  respectful  love  and  isn’t  Evelyn  proud  ? 

* Your  affectionate  old  friend, 

‘ Kate  Holiday.’ 

* Such  a eulogy/  wrote  back  De  Morgan,  ‘ should  be  thanked 
for  on  the  nail ; accept  my  thanks  hot,  like  little  pies  on  a board 
from  the  baker’s,  that  have  not  far  to  come/ 

Bernard  Sickert  to  William  De  Morgan. 

‘ Crown  Hotel, 

‘ Hay,  Hereford, 

* Sun  : September,  1906. 

* Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan,— 

‘ You  will  not,  I hope,  think  it  " beastly  cheek  ” for  me  to  write 
and  congratulate  you  on  your  wonderful  book,  Joseph  Vance.  It  is  long 
since  I have  enjoyed  any  novel,  as  I did  this  one,  and  its  length  was  one 


1 The  writer’s  daughter. 


250  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

of  ” linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out.”  I was  delighted  with  ” this  ’ere 
hinseck,”  and  as  for  Mrs.  Vance,  senior,  addressing  Mr.  Joseph  as  if  he 
were  a Basuto,  I chortled  so  disgracefully  over  this  in  the  Underground 
that  I had  to  excuse  and  explain  myself  to  an  interested  old  gentleman. 
When  a man  makes  a public  nuisance  of  himself  in  a public  conveyance,  he 
is  justified  in  saying,  “ Please, sir,  it  wasn’t  me,  it  was  the  other  boy” — 
but  the  ethics  of  schoolboys  requires  that  he  shall  then  give  the  other  boy 
the  opportunity  of  punching  his  head.’ 

Mrs . Fleming  (nee  Kipling ) to  William  De  Morgan. 

' 7/1,  Loudon  Street, 

' Calcutta, 

‘ September  20 th,  1906. 

'Dear,  and  famous,  Novelist, — 

' I haven’t  read  it  yet,  it  hasn’t  arrived  in  India — but  its  reviews 
have  and  what  a chorus  of  praise  they  are  ! Unanimous,  is  no  word  for 
it—”  fore  God  they  are  all  in  a tale ” 

* I tracked  your  meteor  flight  through  many  papers,  purring  loudly 
over  the  Review  of  Reviews  and  the  Spectator — and  then  in  the  Bookman 
I found  your  portrait — looking  quite  kind  and  usual  and  not  at  all  proud — 
and  it  emboldened  me  to  write  to  you  at  once — Todgers  has  done  it  and 
no  mistake  and  I cannot  tell  you  how  delighted  I am.  Oh,  it’s  you  must 
be  a happy  man  and  Evelyn  a proud  woman  ! 

‘ I am  so  looking  forward  to  making  acquaintance  with  Joseph — and 
Miss  Lossie. 

' And  what  is  the  title  of  your  next  book  I wonder  and  the  next  after 
that  ? 


The  same  to  the  same. 

1 7/1,  Loudon  Street, 

‘ Calcutta. 

* Nov . 1st  (but  still  8o°  in  the  coolest  room),  1906. 

' Joe  came  last  Sunday  and  I have  been  reading  him,  and  chuckling 
over  him,  and  delighting  in  him  and  crying  over  him  ever  since.  I never 
cry  over  a book  so  how  do  you  expect  me  to  forgive  you  for  ” the  chapter 
that  had  to  be  written  ” ? I stood  it  bravely — with  only  a blink  or  two — 
till  I came  to  the  ” touch  of  the  rings  ” when  the  hand  ” slipped  away  for 
ever  ” — and  then  I had  to  get  another  handkerchief.  How  do  you  know- 
all  the  early  part  ? Where  did  you  get  the  scenes  and  surroundings  your 
childhood  never  knew — but  which  you  depict  with  such  perfect  realism  ? 
I want  to  know  how  long  you  have  been  writing  it — and  lots  of  things. 
It  is  less  like  a first  book  than  was  ever  any.  I believe — if  we  only  knew 
the  truth  you  have  written  a large  number  and  published  them  anony- 
mously ! Perhaps  you  are  a well-known  writer  in  disguise.  Don’t  tell 
me  that  you  are  ” Le  Queux  ” or  ” Silas  K.  Hocking  ” — refreshing  your 
soul  by  writing  a real  book  after  dozens  of  machine-made  [popularities. 
But  that  Joe  is  really  the  first  of  all  I cannot  believe.  Where’s  crudity  ? 
Where’s  indecision  ? Where’s  stilted  dialogue — and  woolliness  of  charac- 
terization ? Perhaps  you  burnt  all  Joseph’s  elder  brethren  (were  there 
10  of  them  ?),  if  so  I am  very  sorry  but  I look  forward  joyfully  to  Benjamin 
in  the  Spring.  Your  synopsis  of  him  I like- — but  do  I understand  your 
” five  ghosts  ” are  all  freed  from  their  corpses — or  still  wearing  them  ? 
I am  very  much  indebted  to  you  for  the  ” ghost  in  the  corpse  ” phrase — 
and  for  the  Doctor’s  opinions  in  Chap  : XL  and  I should  find  it  hard 
to  tell  you  how  much  I appreciate  the  description  of  Cristoforo  on  Page 
462.  I have  not  yet  thanked  you  for  your  letter  and  the  ” Portrait  of 


JOSEPH  VANCE  251 

the  Author  with  autograph.”  I’m  glad  your  subliminal  self  wrote  me 
down  a niece  before  the  mere  supra-liminal  You  corrected  it. 

* Finis  took  me  in  for  two  whole  seconds  and  made  me  very  angry — 
don’t  you  think  in  your  fourth  or  fifth  edition  you  should  have  “ Finis 
(but  go  on).”  I could  not  have  borne  it  if  Lossie  had  been  left  in  the 
dark. 

‘ With  my  love  and  renewed  and  first  hand  congratulations. 

* Your  affectionate, 

* Trix  Fleming.’ 

The  following  from  Mr.  Lockwood  Kipling,  the  father  of  Mrs. 
Fleming,  expresses  an  appreciation  equal  to  her  own.  Mr.  Kip- 
ling, who  had  been  at  one  time  connected  with  the  manufactory 
of  pottery  at  Burslem,  and  had  subsequently  held  a post  at  the 
South  Kensington  Museum,  had  recently  returned  from  Bombay, 
where  he  had  for  long  filled  an  appointment  at  the  School  of  Art. 
He  also  wrote  brilliantly,  but  complained  to  De  Morgan  that  he 
found  it  impossible  to  concentrate  his  attention  on  original 
composition.  ‘ How  can  I write,’  he  used  to  say,  * when  I am 
dying  to  be  out  in  the  sun  and  the  wind  ? ’ 

* Tisbury,  S.O.  Wilts, 

* 21  November,  1906. 

‘ My  dear  De  Morgan, — 

* Joseph  Vance  gave  me  some  days  of  the  most  perfect  pleasure  an 
inveterate  reader  of  my  age  can  taste.  And  when  I emerged  from  its 
glamour  I said  to  myself  I will  write  post-haste  to  its  “ onlie  begetter.” 

* But,  as  usual  I dawdled,  having  more  to  say  than  seemed  fair  to 
inflict  even  on  an  author  who  had  set  himself  aloft  in  the  pillory  of  a 
great  success.  And  I wrote  to  Trix  telling  her  at  some  length  about 
the  book  and  saying  that  surely  in  weaving  so  delightful  a story  you  must 
have  been  the  happiest  man  alive.  This,  as  you  justly  observe  is  scarcely 
a critical  view  and  it  only  expresses  one  side  of  my  appreciation.  But  a 
side  to  which  your  own  title-page  inclined  me.  You  say  “ ill-written  ” — - 
and,  knowing  an  honest  mind  when  I meet  one,  I looked  for  the  reason. 
It  seemed  to  me  perhaps  that  you  meant  the  book  had  written  itself,  that 
the  folk  of  your  fancy  had  taken  charge  of  the  pen  and  that  in  some 
sort  the  story  had  gone  d la  derive.  I suppose  most  intensely  felt  and 
vivid  work  gives  that  impression — to  writer  possibly  as  to  reader,  and 
leads  one  to  envy  the  man  who  has  the  good  fortune  to  be  taken  by  the 
hand  and  led  through  surprising  and  enchanting  adventures.  But  when 
one  looks  closer,  or  rather  perhaps  a little  further  off,  to  get  the  perspec- 
tive right,  it  is  plain  that  all  the  rules  of  the  writer’s  art  are  observed,  for 
there  is  nothing  wanting  of  all  the  preparations,  developments  and  unfold- 
ing prescribed  since  good  story-writing  first  began.  And  the  labour  of 
love  is  also  a triumph  of  skill. 

‘ So,  besides  the  congratulations  one  owes  to  a friend  recently  wedded 
(to  the  Muse)  and  evidently  radiantly  happy  in  his  housekeeping,  one  has 
to  doff  one’s  hat  reverently  to  a skilful  master  who  at  one  effort  is  in  line 
with  the  most  honoured  names  in  English  letters. 

‘ Is  this  a little  sonorous  ? Not  a bit  in  my  honest  opinion.  I am 
not  given  to  heroics,  only  I feel — as  Willie  Laidlaw  said  to  Sir  Walter — 
“ this  is  a varra  supeerior  occasion.” 

‘ I don’t  think  I should  do  more  justice  to  it,  though  I might  gratify 


252  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

the  garrulity  of  my  age,  by  yarning  at  large  on  the  merits  of  the  book  as 
they  appear  to  me.  But  I should  want  more  sheets  than  you  would  care 
to  read  and  the  reviewers  have  doubtless  told  you  as  much  as  you  care 
to  know  in  this  kind. 

‘ And,  as  plain  matter  of  fact,  to  such  art  as  yours,  reviewers’  and 
readers’  opinions  matter  nothing.  I am  glad  to  think  there  is  more 
coming.’ 


Lady  Tennant  [Lady  Glenconner]1  to  William  De  Morgan . 

* I am  going  to  recall  myself  to  your  remembrance  on  the  strength  of 
Joseph  Vance,  if  it  be  not  too  intrusive,  and  to  tell  you  how  much,  how 
greatly,  how  entirely  I am  enjoying  the  book,  and  to  thank  you  for  it. 
You  knew  me  long  ago  when  I was  a little  girl  at  the  Grange  visiting  the 
Burne-Joneses,  and  once  my  Mother  took  me  with  her  to  visit  your  tile- 
making place.  I was  Pamela  Wyndham  then,  and  now  I am  married  and 
have  five  children  and  am  Pamela  Tennant. 

‘ But  it  strikes  me  all  this  is  rather  the  letter  that  Beppino  would  have 
written,  too  much  about  himself,  and  I really  want  to  express  to  you,  if 
I can,  how  glad  I am  to  think  there  is  some  one  who  is  writing  such  a book 
as  Joseph  Vance. 

‘ When  I was  at  Clouds  lately,  I went  over  to  see  Mr.  Lockwood  Kipling 
at  Tisbury,  who  is  a very  old  friend  of  ours.  And  I found  he  knew  your 
book,  and  we  talked  it  over,  and  it  was  he  who  gave  me  your  address. 
Of  course  for  years  we  raved  about  your  sister’s  stories — On  a Pincushion 
and  all  the  others — and  now  my  children  love  them,  I am  glad  to  say, 
and  our  only  regret  concerned  with  them  is  that  there  are  not  more. 

‘ On  the  occasion  I spoke  of  when  my  Mother  went  to  see  your  tiles, 
you  gave  me  one  that  immensely  took  my  fancy,  it  was  a Do-Do  bird,  in 
green,  and  I have  got  the  tile  quite  whole  and  safe  now.  I saw  it  the'other 
day  and  looked  at  it  with  quite  new  eyes,  now  that  I know  your  book. 
I have  a corner  cupboard  at  home  with  glass  doors  where  all  my  odds  and 
ends  and  toys  and  treasures  of  childish  days  live,  and  that  is  where  the 
Do-Do  tile  has  been  all  these  years,  and  that  is  how  it  has  not  been  broken, 
I suppose. 

‘ There  are  countless  things  I am  indebted  to  you  for  in  the  book. 
Aunt  Izzy’s  mishearings  for  one — especially  the  one  about  serpents 
posting  the  letters.  Then  such  bits  as  when  Lossie  comes  into  thefroom 
at  Sarry  Spencer’s  home,  and  it  seems  as  if  all  the  blinds  had  been  pulled 
up.  Of  course  the  first  scene,  most  vivid  and  informed  with  life — I 
mean  the  scene  of  “ crocking  the  hinsect  ” is  delightful  to  me.  . . . 
Christopher  Vance  is  a great  character — very  new  and  absolutely  real  . . . 
but  if  I were  to  enumerate  all  the  things  in  your  book  that  I like,  you’d 
read  your  whole  book  over  again  and  I’d  never  have  finished.  ...  I can’t 
help  liking  the  couplet  about  the  Body  and  Soul,  although  it’s  altogether 
horrible — so  horrible  that  when  I say  it  to  myself,  I generally  finish  with 
Ugh! 

* I am  giving  this  book  of  yours  away  to  people  whom  I feel  I shall 
cease  to  care  for  if  they  don’t  like  it  too.  . . 


1 Pamela,  daughter  of  the  Hon.  Percy  Scawen  Wyndham,  of  Clouds, 
and  granddaughter  of  the  ist  Baron  Leconfield,  married,  in  1895,  Edward 
Priaulx  Tennant  (son  of  Sir  Charles  Tennant,  ist  Bart.,  and  brother  of 
Mrs.  Asquith),  who  succeeded  to  the  Baronetcy  in  1906,  and  was  created 
ist  Baron  Glenconner  in  1911.  He  died  in  1920. 


JOSEPH  VANCE  253 

William  Be  Morgan  to  Lady  Tennant. 

‘ Via  Lungo  il  Mugnone, 

‘ Florence 

* Indeed  neither  you  nor  any  of  your  family  need  recalling  to  my 
remembrance.  How  should  they  ? — though  indeed  it  is  true  you  are  one 
of  its  members  whom  I have  not  met  since  the  old  never-to-be-forgotten 
days  of  the  Grange.  At  least  I think  not,  but  speak  short  of  certainty. 

‘ What  a happiness  it  is  to  me  to  get  letters  like  yours  about  Joe  ! — 
a pleasure  that  two  or  three  years  ago  the  rashest  anticipations  would 
have  flinched  at.  And  do  you  know  I get  such  a lot  of  appreciation  on 
Joe’s  account  that  I am  getting  that  vain  there’s  no  a-bearing  of  me,  as 
Anne  at  Poplar  Villa  would  have  said  ! The  last  two  reviews  I stuck  in 
my  egotism-nourishing  book  of  cuttings  were  from  Minnesota  and  Oregon — 
that  I used  to  read  Catlin  about  when  I was  a boy.  Isn’t  it  all  funny  ? 
Only,  I’m  not  sure  that  it  isn’t  even  funnier  that  I should  just  be  going 
to  write  out  what  you  say  of  my  sister’s  fairy-stories  to  Cairo,  of  all  places 
in  the  world,  where  she  is  actually  bossing  a reformatory  of  small  female 
Arab  waifs  and  strays,  with  sable  Nubians  for  surbordinates  ! How  she 
will  enjoy  my  quotation  from  your  letter  ! 

‘ Let  me  thank  you  very  much  for  one  thing  about  Joe — your  allusion 
to  Aunt  Izzy.  Do  you  know  I have  been  made  quite  unhappy  by  deaf 
people  who  have  supposed  her  to  be  a piece  of  unfeeling  ridicule  of  an 
infirmity  no  one  pities  more  honestly  than  I do.  I had  an  anonymous 
letter  from  a poor  deaf  lady,  who  could  not  say  too  much  in  praise  of  the 
book,  but  implied  that  all  her  pleasure  had  been  spoiled  by  Aunt  Izzy. 
She  couldn’t-  understand  why  lame  people  should  not  be  “ made  game 
of  ” too.  This  way  of  looking  at  it  seems  to  me  to  drag  the  whole  thing 
into  a false  light.  A report  of  telephone  blunders,  however  laughable  in 
themselves,  are  no  garment  of  derision  for  those  who  make  them.  I am 
so  glad  anyone  should  read  Aunt  Izzy  and  not  think  me  an  unfeeling 
beast. 

‘ The  couplet  Body  and  Spirit,  etc.,  is  from  a little  volume  of  Swin- 
burne’s I have  never  seen — know  it  only  from  quotation — called  “ The 
Seven  against  Sense  ” — parodies  of  Tennyson,  etc.  What  I have  come 
across  was  perfectly  lovely.  Do  you  know  when  I repeated  those  two 
lines  to  Morris  once  he  said,  “ Well  ! I call  that  good  common  sense.” 

‘ I must  really  read  Auerbach’s  On  the  Heights  one  day — I have  so 
often  heard  about  it.  Such  a lot  of  things  I’ve  never  read  ! ! 

‘ I mustn’t  cover  this  sheet — neither  time  nor  reason  permit  it.  Thank 
you  again,  and  yet  once  more  for  your  letter. 

‘ Give  my  love  and  my  wife’s  to  your  mother — totidem  verbis 

1 A Stranger  to  William  Be  Morgan. 

‘ Golden  Gate  Avenue, 

‘ Point  Richmond, 

‘ Cal.,  U.S.A. 

* Dear  William  De  Morgan, — 

‘ Pardon  the  apparent  familiarity — it  is  affection  that  dictates  the 
M William  ” — (I’d  like  to  call  you  Joey). 

‘ I have  just  finished  Joseph  Vance,  and  so  powerful  is  the  impression 
on  me  that  I cannot  just  shut  the  book  (as  I do  others)  and  put  it  away. 

‘ I have  just  to  speak  to  some  one  about  it — there  is  (alas  !)  no  one 


1 For  obvious  reasons  the  anonymity  of  letters  is  preserved  where  the 
communications  are  confidential  in  tone  and  it  has  been  impossible  to 
ascertain  if  the  writers  would  object  to  the  publication  of  their  names. 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


254 

near  me  who  would  understand,  if  I did  speak.  Something  probably 
would  be  said  that  would  wound  me,  as  I feel  now — that  is  why  I choose 
to  speak  to  you,  the  Creator  of  this  wonderful  book. 

‘ The  impression  it  has  made  upon  me  may  be  gathered  from  the 
enclosed  page  1 — I was  so  worked  up,  I had  to  sit  down  and  try  to  comfort 
poor  Joey. 

‘ I remember,  years  ago,  I did  the  same  thing  when  I lost  my  Janey — 
I wrote  her  a letter. 

‘ You  have  wrung  my  heart ; I remember  only  once  feeling  something 
of  the  same  when  I read  Peter  Ibbetson  by  du  Maurier,  and  in  a much  less 
degree  David  Copperfield  ; but  in  those  days  I was  young  and  it  did  not 
hurt  so  much,  but  now  alas  ! I am  old  and  alone.  . . . 

‘ This  is  the  first  work  of  yours  I have  read,  and  greatly  as  I admire 
you,  I am  almost  afraid  to  look  into  another,  I shan’t  want  to  for  a long 
time  anyway — indeed  I don’t  know  how  you  could  have  the  heart  to 
write  anything  more — it’s  enough  for  one  lifetime. 

‘ I part  with  Joey  with  great  reluctance,  he  is  so  human  and  so  loveable, 
and  altogether  he  has  brought  a “ web  of  strange  filaments  of  pain  that 
keep  my  eyes  dim  ” — yet  I take  some  comfort  from  his  question  “ what 
profit  to  oneself  is  the  indulgence  of  grief  at  the  best.  Of  how  much 
less  if  each  pang  adds  a new  pang  to  other  pain  elsewhere .” 

‘ As  for  you,  William  De  Morgan,  may  you  live  long  and  prosper  is 
the  wish  of  a lonely  human  being  who  loves  books.’ 

* My  pen,’  wrote  De  Morgan  from  Devonshire  in  the  autumn 
of  1906,  ‘ is  simply  aching  with  the  amount  of  work  it  has  to  do 
in  answering  friends’  letters,  known  and  unknown,  about  /.  V. 
These  letters  are  not  meant  to  be  compulsory  of  answers,  but  it 
is  wonderful  how  compulsory  they  become.  I find  they  inter- 
fere seriously  with  what  I wanted  to  be  a rest.  ...  Yet  I 
prize  my  magazine  of  congratulatory  correspondence.  But  oh  ! 
the  blunders  that  turn  up  ! the  stupid  pen-slips  one  makes  ! and 
the  palpable  errors  one  overlooks  ! I have  actually  called  Cheyne 
Row  Cheyne  Walk  after  living  there  sixteen  years  ! ' 

Professor  Mackail  to  William  De  Morgan. 

* 12 th  Nov.,  1906. 

* Cher  et  grand  MaItre, — 

* Have  you  read  the  flaming  advertisement  of  Joseph  that  Heinemann 
is  putting  out  ? I have  just  had  the  exquisite  joy  of  reading  it,  in  huge 
letters  on  half  a column  of  the  Athenceum.  In  case  of  any  awkwardness 
with  Them  Above,  I think  you  ought  to  go  at  once  and  drop  one  of  your 
best  tiles  into  the  Arno  (the  Mugnone  would  no  doubt  be  handier,  but 
there  would  be  a greater  risk  of  its  being  fished  out  and  returned  to  you 
like  the  ring  of  Polycrates).  Read  and  blush — 

JOSEPH  VANCE 
Universally  proclaimed 

THE  GREATEST  NOVEL  OF 
THE  DAY. 

4 f think  it  was  mean  of  him  to  drop  his  voice  on  the  last  word.  Age 
would  have  rounded  it  off  better  and  would  have  been  less  trouble  to  the 
printers  to  set  up. 


1 Unfortunately  lost. 


JOSEPH  VANCE 


255 


* Some  day  I hope  to  see  a list  showing  the  sums  paid  to  authors  for 
works  of  fiction,  somewhat  as  follows  (the  first  two  items  are  real  facts)  : — 

£ d. 


Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 
Winston  Churchill 
J.  W.  Mackail 
W.  De  Morgan 


12.000  o o 

8,000  o o 

5 6 8 

25.000  o o * 


* No/  De  Morgan  replied  from  Florence  on  November  20, 
* I haven’t  seen  that  advt. — not  yet  awhile.  I didn’t  blush  at 
all ! As  I believe  your  own  daughter  once  said  to  her  Granny 
— “ Much  wants  more  ! ” and  I’m  going  in  deliberately  for  as 
much  self-laudation  by  deputy  as  I can  get.  Of  course  it  ought  to 
be  Age  not  day  ! You  see,  I shall  have  to  climb  down  next 
novel ; so  I am  just  carpe-ing  the  diem,  I sometimes  stop  in  the 
street  to  give  three  cheers  for  Joe. 

' I am,  however,  receiving  many  letters  of  a steadying  and 
balancing  sort.  Mary  is  writing  me  fearful  castigations  from 
Egypt  on  account  of  a story  I sent  her  to  read.  My  bad  taste 
and  vulgarity  are,  it  seems,  a caution  for  snakes — of  the  sort 
that  have  those  predispositions.  Also  my  dropping  into  politics 
will,  she  says,  lose  me  every  friend  I have  in  the  world,  especially 
you  and  Margot.  I need  not  say  I have  promised  not  to  pub- 
lish it.  There’s  only  75,000  words  at  most,  so  it  doesn’t  matter. 

‘ I am  catching  it  from  other  correspondents  too.  A deaf 
lady  writes  me  a reproachful  letter  about  Aunt  Izzy.  I am  cruel 
and  unfeeling  ! Why  are  not  blind  people  made  game  of  too  ? 
And  characters  with  wooden  legs  ? Her  letter  was  anonymous, 
otherwise  I should  have  written  to  her  that  I was  not  respon- 
sible— it  was  inspiration — a low  class  of  “ mediumship.”  The 
fact  is  if  the  image  of  a party  gets  into  my  poor  old  ’ead,  that 
image  says  things  of  its  own  accord,  and  I am  too  lazy  at  the 
time  to  run  the  whole  universe  through  my  head  to  see  if  anyone 
can  possibly  object.  I know  I ought  to,  though. 

‘ Do  you  know  I have  really  been  severely  blown  up  for 
making  Lossie  talk  of  a “ little  pot-bellied  Archdeacon,”  and 
when  I lent  the  book  to  the  dearest  of  old  boys  (in  the  West  of 
England  too)  who  in  some  sense  was  a P.B.A.,  I burst  into  a 
cold  perspiration  when  I recollected  it.  I hardly  dare  look  a 
friend  in  the  face  now  who  wears  a real  Hat,1  and  I feel  that 
99  per  cent,  of  my  English  friends  either  despise  or  hate  me  for 
slamming  (a  Yankee  phrase)  in  national  beverage.  I know  I 
shall  fall  a victim  to  the  dirk  of  an  incensed  Homeopath  one  of 
these  days.  . . . Dear  me  ! what  a lot  of  illegible  rot  . . . 
there  now,  isn’t  that  poetry  ? 


1 This  refers  to  Christopher  Vance’s  Top  Hat,  * the  hat  representative 
of  Capital,  for  which  he  went  to  185.  by  reason  of  moral  influence  and  well 
worth  it  at  the  money,  he  said.’ 


256  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

‘ I heard  from  Heinemann  that  Macmillans  had  made  over- 
tures to  him  about  the  next  book,  and  possibly  they  might  agree 
to  co-operate  somehow.  How,  I don’t  know — but  that’s  not 
my  look  out.  ...  I can’t  make  out  about  the  net  books,  etc. 
But  I saw  particulars  of  parcels  of  spent  novels  in  yesterday’s 
Times — ten  uncut  for  1 8s.  6d.,  published  at  6s.  each  ! ! 1 ! ’ 

‘ What  a pity,’  wrote  back  Mackail  jestingly,  ‘ that  you 
didn’t  actually  take  to  politics  so  as  to  have  become  “ Viscount 
De  Morgan  of  the  Vale  ” — how  well  it  would  have  sounded  ! ’ 

But  still  De  Morgan  did  not  regard  his  change  of  profession 
seriously,  ' for,’  as  he  explained  later,  Cockney- wise,  ‘ when  I 
took  to  it,  I had  been  so  long  outside  the  pale  making  tiles  not 
tyles  [tales]  ! ’ And  still  his  thoughts  clung  to  that  other  career 
which  he  had  been  forced  to  abandon.  ' If  J.V.  runs  like  mad,’  he 
wrote  to  Ricardo,  ‘ I shall  be  able  to  push  Fulham — and  I hope 
Capital  will  feel  ashamed  of  himself  ! What  is  the  use  of  a 
Rockefeller  unless  he  trusts  me  with  blank  cheques  ? ’ 

From  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic,  the  real  Mr.  Vance,  ' the 
American  Edition,’  as  he  termed  himself,  wrote  with  enthusiasm 
on  receipt  of  his  fictitious  namesake  : ‘ I am  really  afraid  of 
seeming  to  “ gush  ” when  I try  to  put  my  appreciation  into 
words.  It  is  truly  very  fine  indeed — the  most  thoroughly  satis- 
fying book  I have  read  since  David  Copperfield,  and  after  drawing 
a comparison  between  ‘ David  ’ and  ‘ Joseph,’  he  says  : — 

‘ There  are  so  few  books  written  to-day.  We  write  abbreviated  yarns 
in  curtailed  phrases  and  clipped  English,  with  one  eye  on  the  rate  per 
word  and  the  other  on  the  Publisher,  who  points  sternly  to  the  100,000 
word  figure  and  declares,  44  Thus  far  shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther.”  So 
we  write  few  Books  ; and  fewer  yet  are  published.  It’s  a real  pleasure, 
then,  to  get  acquainted  with  a Joseph  Vance — a book  that  you  cannot 
read  in  one  hour  and  forget  in  the  next  ; a book  whose  people  live  and 
breathe  and  stay  with  you,  remaining  your  friends  for  always. 

‘ There’s  mighty  little  Vance  in  the  story — Vance  as  we  Vances  know 
it,  of  course.  But  that’s  no  matter.  I’m  glad  that  you  remembered  the 
name  and  liked  it  well  enough  to  use  it.  Because  that  makes  me  feel 
somehow  (and  irrationally  enough)  as  if  I knew  you.  . . . 

‘ But  one  can’t  help  wondering  how  much  (or  how  little)  is  autobio- 
graphical, just  as  one  can’t  help  feeling  glad  because  Janey  didn’t  really 
get  drowned — the  real  44  Janey,”  I mean  . . . and  one  hopes  that  she  will 
live  long  to  be  proud  of  Joseph.’ 

William  De  Morgan  to  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

4 September,  1906. 

4 I am  afraid  you  must  be  thinking  me  shockingly  ungrateful  for  your 
most  generous  expression  of  opinion  about  your  44  unconscious  Boswell’s” 
literary  venture.  I can  only  hope  I deserve  some  margin  of  it  that  lies 
beyond  what  I take  to  be  a like  criterion  to  one  that  has  procured  me  a 
criticism  far  beyond  my  merits  in  England — a certain  liberality  of  welcome 
to  an  old  chap  who  really  has  done  more  than  anyone  could  reasonably 
have  expected  of  him  1 


JOSEPH  VANCE  257 

' In  reply  to  a question  in  your  letter,  my  book  is  no  more  my  auto- 
biography than  Terence  (I  trust)  is  yours.  I cannot  even  think 
without  a shudder  of  any  acquaintance  of  mine  (even  epistolary  ones, 
which  I absurdly  forget  we  are,  sometimes)  having  been  involved  in 
events  that  were  “ all  bluggy  like  anyfink  ” — of  course,  you  know  Helen’s 
immortal  Babies  ? 

* Also  there  is  not  a single  portrait  in  it  anywhere.  . . . 

* My  wife  in  her  character  of  the  “ real  Janey  ” thanks  you  for  sharing 
her  own  gladness  that  she  is  not  drowned,  and  also  for  the  pleasure  she  has 
had  in  reading  Terence. 

‘ Am  I,  I wonder,  addressing  an  entirely  false  image  of  you  as  I write 
— and  vice  versa  ? I look  forward  to  one  day  confirming  or  correcting  it.’ 

Perpetually  questioned,  however,  respecting  his  relation  to 
his  own  work,  De  Morgan  wrote  : ‘ I have  been  asked  how  I 
came  to  write  Joseph  Vance  ? Why  I didn’t  write  it  before  ? 
Why  didn’t  I make  it  shorter  ? Why  didn’t  I make  it  longer  ? 
What  is  the  underlying  import  and  final  issue  ? What  am  I a- 
haimin’  at  ? and  so  on.  I have  also  been  asked  why  I didn’t 
omit  Christopher  Vance  and  make  more  of  Peter  Gunn ; also 
why  I didn’t  leave  out  Janey  and  the  wreck,  and  have  nothing 
but  Lossie  all  through. 

* As  to  why  I didn’t  write  it  before,  I can’t  answer.  I give 
it  up.  But  I know  how  I came  to  write  it  this  time.  I wrote 
the  first  chapter  to  try  if  I could  write  fiction ; and  having 
decided  that  I couldn’t,  put  it  away  in  a drawer.  That  was  the 
end  of  Chapter  I — for  that  year,  at  any  rate.  . . . 

‘ As  to  why  I didn’t  make  it  shorter,  and  longer,  I did  both. 
I did  the  last  first,  and  the  first  last ; I did  not  want  to  be  the 
death  of  Mr.  Heinemann.  Six  hundred  pages  there  were.  I 
must  say  he  was  almost  heroic  about  it.  “ Don’t  spoil  the  book 
by  cutting  it,  on  any  account,”  said  he.  “ But  do  what  you 
can.”  I did  what  I could,  cancelled  as  many  pages  as  I could 
wrench  out,  and  sent  the  rest  back  again — not  the  six  hundred. 

‘ As  to  the  ultimate  purport  and  final  issue : Speaking  seri- 
ously, I suppose  no  one  ever  writes  a thick  book  of  close  print 
without  some  kind  of  aim  : some  dominant  idea.  But  he  may 
not  be  able  to  define  it,  for  all  that.  I am  quite  unable  to  do  so, 
in  the  case  of  this  book.  The  dominant  idea  may  be  the  chord 
of  the  Waldstein,  or  the  problem  of  how  to  dedicate  a lifetime 
of  devotion — of  sane  and  human  love — to  two  women  at  once. 
Which  is  it  to  be  ? I cannot  tell ! 

‘ As  to  the  other  queries,  I can  only  say  I wish  I could  have 
left  out  about  Janey  and  the  wreck,  or  got  some  one  else  to 
write  it.  And  as  to  Peter  Gunn,  I would  have  put  in  more  about 
him,  only  I was  afraid  he  would  come  and  butt  at  me.  For  he 
was  or  is  a real  person,  with  his  name  slightly  changed.  His 
original — poor  fellow — killed  a policeman  many  years  ago,  and 
it  took  eighteen  powerful  men  to  convey  him  to  the  station. 


258  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

His  naifie  was  Jim  Cannon.  I cannot  answer  for  this  being  more 
than  forty-five  years  back,  but  I think  it  was  about  that  date. 
He  is  absolutely  the  only  real  person  in  the  book/ 

Punch  meanwhile  rang  the  changes  amusingly  on  the  dual 
‘ Joseph  Vances/ 

‘ Mr.  Louis  Joseph  Vance’s  new  book  is  called  The  Private  War,"  it 
announced,  * but  previous  to  its  publication,  Mr.  William  De  Morgan  had 
written  Joseph  Vance.  The  hero  and  narrator  of  the  Private  War  is 
Gordon  Traill,  and  it  only  remains  for  Traill  to  write  Mr.  De  Morgan, 
and  then  the  matter  will  be  fairly  settled.’ 

Mr.  Vance  likewise  wrote  to  narrate  how  an  artist  having 
drawn  a ‘ very  counterfeit  presentment  ’ of  him  in  fancy  dress  : — 

‘ A San  Francisco  Editor  published  it  as  a portrait  of  my  hero,  Terence 
O’Rourke  ! which,  together  with  the  appearance  of  my  unexpected 
autobiography,  is  so  confusing  that  I hardly  know  whether  I am  myself 
or  an  Irish  Adventurer  all  bluggy  and  broguey,  or  the  real  Joseph  Vance  ! 

From  Mr.  Vance,  De  Morgan  learnt  that  in  America  ' Joseph 
has  a coat  of  many  more  colours  than  that  which  Mr.  Heinemann 
has  fitted  him  with  for  his  public  appearance  in  England  ' ; and 
De  Morgan  subsequently  discovered  that  the  American  edition 
of  the  book  had  been  brought  out  in  a pale  cover  adorned  with 
a gay  decoration  of  three  chessmen,  representing  a Knight  and 
two  Queens,  a singularly  happy  indication  of  a plot  which  dealt 
with  the  influence  of  two  women  upon  the  hero's  life.  This 
design  greatly  pleased  De  Morgan.  ‘ If,'  he  wrote,  ‘ it  is  specially 
planned  for  my  book,  it  is  very  clever.  If  it  is  the  usual  Holt's 
monogram,  it  is  one  of  the  oddest  of  the  many  oddities  that 
have  attended  this  book ! ' Next,  in  reference  to  similar  ‘ oddi- 
ties/ Mr.  Vance  replied  : — 

‘ I am  going  to  cap  your  experiences  with  the  remark  of  a dear  lady, 
a Vance  by  marriage  (not  my  Missis  !)  who,  after  reading  Joseph  Vance, 
expressed  her  verdict  of  it  that  it  was  a most  charming  book — bat — (with 
a sigh)  she  could  have  wished  that  Christopher  had  been  born  in  a little 
better  station  in  Society  ! . . . She  is  an  American,  too  ! ’ 

Later,  referring  to  the  fact  that  De  Morgan’s  novel  was 
announced  as  one  of  the  ‘ six  best  sellers/  Mr.  Vance  relates  : — 

‘ Some  time  ago,  you  know,  the  New  York  Herald  published  a half- 
page or  more  of  burlesque  of  my  new  book,  and  mighty  clever  it  was  too. 
[ am  reminded  of  it  by  that  term  “ best-seller.”  You  see,  when  the 
burlesque  hero  was  cavorting  about  in  the  Frognall  Street  House,  he 
paused  long  enough  to  remark,  aside  : “ My,  how  stuffy  it  is  here  ! Why, 
it  smells  as  musty  as  all  six  of  the  best  cellars  ! ” ’ 

Meanwhile  the  curiosity  of  Joseph  Vance,  the  author,  re- 
specting the  author  of  Joseph  Vance  increased.  ‘ In  my  father’s 


JOSEPH  VANCE  259 

Life/  wrote  De  Morgan,  ‘ is  mention  of  a man  with  whom  he 
corresponded  for  thirty  years — and  never  met.  I hope  that 
won’t  be  our  fate  ! * 

‘ A friend  in  New  York/  announced  Mr.  Vance,  * wrote  me 
yesterday  that  he  had  discovered  a portrait  of  my  literary  god- 
father in  the  Bookman , so  I have  sent  for  that  publication  and 
hope  presently  to  discover  if  I am  addressing  an  entirely  false 
image  of  you.’ 

By  and  by  came  the  verdict : — 

‘ Quaintly  enough,  I,  for  one,  had  not  created  a false  image  of  you, 
not  very  false,  at  least ; you  are  much  as  I reckoned  you  must  be,  from 
your  letters,  from  your  book,  from  any  number  of  impressions  I had 
subconsciously  received  since  I wrote  that  impudent  note  bidding  you 
stand  and  deliver  one  copy  of  Joseph  Vance  ! So  I am  pleased  beyond 
measure.’ 

But  while  Joseph  Vance  was  flying  through  the  press,  and 
there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  respecting  its  success,  erroneous 
rumours  were  current  respecting  the  identity  of  the  author.  For 
a time  few  connected  the  name  of  William  De  Morgan  with  that 
of  his  father,  the  famous  mathematician ; as  did  few,  who  were 
not  personal  friends,  with  that  of  the  aforetime  maker  of  tiles. 
On  receiving  a packet  of  American  newspaper-cuttings  from  Mr. 
Vance  purporting  to  give  much  information  about  his  antece- 
dents which  was  apocryphal,  De  Morgan  wrote  out  to  the  latter 
a brief  account  of  his  life  in  order  that  Mr.  Vance  might  be  in  a 
position  to  contradict  all  false  reports.  The  gist  of  what  he 
therein  related  concerning  the  past  is  known  to  us ; but  it  was 
endorsed  by  a description  of  more  recent  experiences  from  the 
pen  of  his  wife  : — 

Evelyn  De  Morgan  to  Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

1 19  Lungo  il  Mugnone, 

‘ Florence,  Italy, 

* 27 th  October,  1906. 

* Dear  Mr.  Vance,-— 

* Ever  since  Joseph  Vance  saw  the  light  of  print  last  June,  I have 
been  floundering,  gasping,  gurgling  in  a sea  of  fiction,  and  now  comes  your 
kind  note  and  enclosures  to  my  husband  with  yet  more  and  more  fiction, 
till  I feel  I must  make  an  effort  to  know  who  I am ; and  still  more  what 
sort  of  cameleon  kind  of  a bogy  of  a husband  I seem  to  have  been  har- 
bouring unawares.  I want  sympathy  and  enlightenment,  and  I feel  sure 
you  will  be  kind — *you,  and  Mrs.  Vance — and  listen  to  my  tale  of  bewilder- 
ment. 

‘ First,  I am  emphatically  told  that  1 was  (Janey)  drowned  off  the 
coast  of  Spain,  and  a column  erected  to  my  memory ; then  when,  with  all 
the  vitality  I possess,  aided  by  what  I may  be  allowed  to  term  the  plas- 
ticity of  my  appearance,  I protest,  I am  fixed  by  the  soul-searching  eye 
of  a friend,  and  the  announcement  made  that  I am  Lossie  ! and  that 
there  can  be  no  doubt  whatever  about  that  ! Next  comes  another  friend 
who  drops  the  Lossie,  and  I find  I am  again  Mrs.  De  Morgan,  this  time  it 


26o  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

is  a hesitating  confidential  inquiry  as  to  “ If  I have  any  idea  how  Mr.  De 
Morgan  came  to  know  so  much  about  lower  class  life,  etc.  ? but  perhaps 
it  is  indiscreet  to  ask  ! perhaps  they  ought  not  to  nave  inquired.”  And 
I am  left  with  a sense  of  dark  corners  in  the  past.  Then  I am  cheered  by 
another  less  compromising  view  of  the  position.  “ My  dear,  your  husband 
is  a medium  ; it  is  the  only  way  of  accounting  for  his  knowledge  of  the 
lower  classes,  his  writing  is  inspired.”  This  sets  me  up  a little  and  I am 
beginning  to  feel  better,  when  another  friend  assures  me  positively  that 
he  was  a drunkard  in  a previous  state  of  existence,  otherwise  it  would  be 
quite  impossible  for  him  to  write  with  such  feeling  about  drink. 

‘ And  now,  dear  Mr.  Vance,  come  your  kind  enclosures,  and  I read  in 
print  that  my  husband  is  an  old  artist  well  over  70,  and  brother  of  the 
mathematician . 

‘ Now  first  of  all  he  is  not  70,  indeed  he  is  not,  I was  not  there  when  he 
was  born,  it  is  true,  in  fact  they  would  have  had  to  put  it  off  a good  many 
years  for  me  to  be  present,  but  I feel  sure  his  mother  would  have  told  me 
if  he  could  have  been  70  now,  then  how  can  he  be  his  father’s  (the  mathe- 
matician’s) brother  ? that’s  what  puzzles  me  most  of  all ; and  lastly  it 
is  I that  am  the  artist,  he  is  the  potter,  and  makes  lustre  tiles  and  bowls, 
to  his  great  cost  and  the  satisfaction  of  many.  Now  if  ever  you  read  to 
the  end  of  this  long  letter  the  only  reward  I can  offer  you  in  gratitude 
for  your  forbearance  and  patience  is  my  solemn  assurance  that  I do  not 
believe  you  are  in  the  secret  service  of  the  Czar  or  that  you  are  busy 
waging  a private  war  with  any  one,  I repudiate  the  notion  that  you  stabbed 
Netze  to  the  heart,  or  that  Mrs.  Vance  clinched  matters  with  a revolver. 
I can  enjoy  and  thank  you  for  your  stories  of  dire  adventure,  without 
incriminating  the  innocent  author  of  the  tale. 

* So  far  had  I written,  when  this  morning’s  post  brings  your  letter 
with  the  photos,  forwarded  on  from  London,  and  to  crown  it  all  1 find 
that  truth  has  proved  herself  to  be  stranger  than  fiction  and  that  Mrs. 
Vance  too  is  an  artist  ! Well  I hope  she  will  tell  me  what  she  is  painting, 
and  now  that  I know  I have  a sister  brush  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
I feel  still  more  anxious  that  my  humble  efforts  should  not  be  regarded 
as  sort  of  mystic  projections  of  what  my  husband  will  do  when  he  is  70, 
sort  of  astral  things  you  know,  not  good  honest  wholesome  paint  and 
canvas,  produced  by  the  writer  of  this  letter,  and  who  has  had  what  is 
technically  known  asa“  one  man  show  ” a few  years  back  in  Berlin,  and 
who  held  a similar  show  in  London  last  summer,  and  who  in  order  to 
combat  the  evil  effect  of  a sedentary  life,  goes  to  a swimming  bath  at  7 
o’clock  in  the  morning  in  summer  (by  the  way,  could  the  artist  of  70  have 
grown  out  of  that  ?)  and  does  Sandow  exercises  in  the  winter  mornings,  I 
recommend  these  practices  to  Mrs.  Vance,  and  shall  make  bold  to  send 
her  a photo  of  a big  picture  [ The  Valley  of  Shadows ] I have  not  long  since 
completed  if  she  will  be  good  enough  to  accept  it. 

* My  husband  is  writing  to  you,  he  is  just  off  a sea  voyage  or  you  would 
have  heard  from  him  sooner.  Our  yearly  migration  to  milder  climes 
has  intervened  and  correspondence  has  suffered  in  consequence. 

‘ Believe  me  with  kind  regards  to  Mrs.  Vance  and  the  same  to  yourself, 

‘ Very  truly  yours, 

‘ Evelyn  De  Morgan.’ 

* What  a pity/  wrote  De  Morgan  genially  at  length  to  Mr. 
Vance,  ‘ that  you  live  such  a long  way  off  ! ’ and  Mr.  Vance 
responded  with  equal  affability  but  a note  of  interrogation — 
‘ A long  way  from  where  ? ' 


CHAPTER  XI 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  METHOD 

1906-1907 

* TJOW  do  you  know  whether  you  are  successful  or  not  at 
JlX  forty-one  ? * Alice  asks  in  Alice-f or- Short  when  Charles 
Heath  laments  the  failure  of  his  life  as  an  artist.  ‘ How  do  you 
know  you  won’t  have  a tremendous  success  all  of  a sudden  ? 
Yes — after  another  ten  years  of  real  happy  work.  It  has  all 
been  before,  this  sort  of  thing — Why  not  you  ? ’ And  as  De 
Morgan,  writing  his  second  novel,  penned  these  words,  he  knew 
that  the  * success  all  of  a sudden  ’ had  come  in  his  own  life — 
not  at  the  age  of  forty-one,  but  at  sixty-seven,  when  the  faculties 
of  most  men  are  on  the  wane — when  they  are  thinking  languidly 
of  laying  aside  the  work  which  has  engrossed  their  manhood, 
in  order  to  enjoy  a well-earned  rest  during  the  few  remaining 
years  while  they  await  death. 

The  recognition  was  at  first  incredible  to  him.  * Really/  he 
wrote  to  his  publisher,  ‘ anyone  would  think  from  the  letters  I 
get  from  all  over  the  Globe  that  I had  written  the  Holy  Bible — 
only  Bowdlerized,  of  course  ! I dare  say  my  shower  of  testi- 
monials is  only  every  author’s  experience.  Only,  you  see,  it’s 
all  new  to  me  ! ’ 

He  was  the  more  surprised  at  his  success  when  he  gradually 
understood  that  his  outlook  and  his  methods  were  entirely  out 
of  harmony  with  the  alleged  taste  of  the  age.  With  remarkable 
prescience — since  at  the  time  the  writer  knew  nothing  of  the  man 
of  whom  he  wrote — Professor  Phelps,  criticizing  De  Morgan’s 
first  book,  wrote  : ‘ Despite  the  likeness  to  Dickens  in  characters 
and  atmosphere,  Joseph  Vance  sounds  not  only  as  though  its 
author  had  never  written  a novel  previously,  but  as  though  he  had 
never  read  one.  It  has  all  the  strangeness  of  reality.’  And  this, 
suspected  by  the  critic,  was  curiously  near  the  truth. 

‘ The  fact  is,’  De  Morgan  said  to  a friend,  ‘ I have  blundered 
into  the  wrong  generation.  I belong  entirely  to  the  Dickens 
period  of  life  and  literature.  I read  greedily  when  Pickwick 
was  up-to-date,  and  when  all  the  world  was  as  Dickens  drew  it. 
Afterwards  I plunged  into  an  active  life  in  which  every  moment 

261 


262  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

of  my  time  was  absorbed  by  art,  by  chemical  problems  or  mechani- 
cal inventions,  and  for  forty  years  I scarcely  looked  in  a book 
unless  it  was  about  pots  or  mechanisms.  When  I turned  again 
to  literature,  I took  it  up  exactly  where  I had  left  it  off — the 
interregnum  did  not  exist  for  me.’  He  was  like  Jane  Verrinder 
in  Alice-for-Short,  that  strangely  fascinating  creation  of  his  brain, 
the  old-young  bride  who,  after  a lifetime  of  forgetfulness  as  the 
result  of  an  accident,  during  which  her  body  has  aged  and  her 
mind  remained  dormant,  resumes  consciousness  precisely  where 
she  has  lost  it — in  the  hey-day  of  a long-vanished  youth  and  a 
long-dead  world. 

And  it  was,  contrary  to  all  precedent,  just  this  sense  of  a 
resuscitation  in  De  Morgan’s  novels — the  piquancy  of  contrast 
between  the  present  and  what  he  termed  ‘ then-a-days  ' — which, 
depicted  by  a masterhand,  caught  the  public  imagination.  With 
a happy  unconsciousness  he  had  defied  the  orthodox  standards 
of  his  age,  and  they  melted  away  before  his  charm.  In  his 
penmanship  he  was  tender,  he  was  strong,  he  was  daring ; yet 
about  all  which  he  wrote  there  clung  a romance  that  was  elusive — 
something  of  the  delicate  aroma  of  a treasure  which  has  been 
laid  by  in  lavender  and  which,  half-ghostly  in  its  essence,  stirs 
memories  that  are  wholesome,  and  clean,  and  sweet. 

Admittedly  he  was  one  born  out  of  due  season.  He  belonged 
to  a date  before  the  Age  of  Hurry,  and  he  refused  to  be  dictated 
to  by  the  mere  passing  of  Time.  As  a reviewer  pointed  out : 
4 He  outraged  every  canon  of  convention  ; public  taste  had 
decreed  that  books  should  be  short,  brilliant,  superficial — impres- 
sionist, yet  couched  in  exquisite  and  studied  language/  From 
the  first,  De  Morgan  declined  to  be  hustled ; he  allowed  his 
pen  to  wander  over  the  paper  without  let  or  hindrance ; he 
indulged  in  the  graphic  slang  and  the  rollicking  puns  of  a school- 
boy ; the  cockney  of  a coster ; the  phraseology  of  a poet ; the 
profundity  of  a philosopher.  There  are  passages  in  his  books 
which  tear  at  the  heart-strings ; there  are  others  which  leave 
the  reader  amazed  at  the  light-hearted  irresponsibility  which 
so  penned  them.  He  troubled  about  no  studied  periods  or 
finished  diction  ; he  has  been  described  as  a man  who  button- 
holed his  reader  and  talked  to  him  in  homely  fashion.  He  did 
not  even  tell  a story — he  let  the  characters  in  his  story  speak  for 
themselves.  If  he  reviewed  a situation  he  reviewed  it  entirely 
from  the  standpoint  of  his  puppets — in  their  language ; the  tale 
with  its  ingenious  perplexities  spun  itself  out  of  their  very  human 
sayings  and  emotions.  He  was  discursive,  he  digressed,  he 
soliloquized  at  will ; again  and  yet  again  he  was  pithy,  he  was 
sapient,  he  was  subtle  : but  always  he  was  simple  and  sincere. 
His  pictures  of  Life  were  exact.  He  was  in  literature  what  a 
Pre-Raphaelite  is  in  painting — he  showed  a passion  for  minute- 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  METHOD 


263 

ness  and  for  accuracy  of  workmanship — for  a whole  flawless  in 
detail.  His  finished  work  was  like  some  delicate  mosaic  fashioned 
of  minutiae  which  a smaller  genius  would  have  ignored.  It  was 
said  of  him,  * he  gets  his  sharpest  and  most  telling  effects  by  the 
perfect  skill  with  which  he  introduces  the  multitude  of  trivial 
details,  unimportant  in  themselves,  but  momentous  in  their 
bearing  on  the  growth  of  character  and  event,  and  indispensable 
if  the  life  recorded  is  to  reflect  fully  and  faithfully  life  as  it  is 
lived/  But  he  saw  that  the  tale  of  each  man’s  existence  is 
woven  in  a work-a-day  world — that  life  itself  is  but  a sequence 
of  trivialities  in  which  the  greater  hinge  on  the  lesser  and  each 
has  an  imperceptible  bearing  on  the  whole.  He  wrote  : — 

* Be  good  enough  to  note  that  none  of  the  characters  in  this  story  are 
picturesque  or  heroic — only  chance  samples  of  folk  such  as  you  may  see 
pass  your  window  now,  this  moment,  if  you  will  only  lay  your  book  down 
and  look  out.  They  are  passing — passing — all  day  long,  each  with  a story. 
And  some  little  thing  you  see,  a meeting,  a parting,  may  make  the  next 
hour  the  turning  point  of  an  existence.  For  it  is  of  such  little  things  the 
great  ones  are  made  ; and  this  is  a tale  made  up  of  trifles — trifles  touching 
human  souls  that,  for  aught  we  know  to  the  contrary,  may  last  for  ever.’ 

‘ De  Morgan’s  chief  occupation  throughout  half  a normal 
lifetime,’  writes  a critic,  4 was  the  beauty  of  minute  detail,  the 
quality  of  glaze  upon  a teacup,  the  excellence  of  colour  or  design 
in  a tile.  His  is  the  type  of  mind  which  gradually  through  the 
passage  of  years  might  be  expected  to  gather  up  a treasure-house 
of  fine,  delicate,  unique  ideas  about  life  in  general,  much  as  a 
connoisseur  gathers  together  rare  gems  of  porcelain  quite  indif- 
ferent as  to  whether  they  group  themselves  harmoniously  upon 
their  respective  shelves.’  Out  of  the  garnered  experience  of  a 
lifetime  he  wrote,  out  of  the  reality  of  the  Past  he  fashioned 
the  fiction  of  the  Present ; but  the  habit  common  to  all  reviewers 
of  desiring  to  identify  each  place  and  person  in  a work  of  imagina- 
tion, or  to  foist  upon  an  author,  as  his  own,  opinions  expressed 
by  his  puppets,  was  strongly  resented  by  him. 

‘ When  I read  Joseph  Vance  over  after  publication,’  he  ad- 
mitted, ‘ I found  I could  pick  out  little  bits  here  and  there  which 
were  real,  in  that  they  were  personal  experiences  of  my  own  or 
were  things  coming  within  my  knowledge  of  others.  But  there 
is  not  a trace  of  my  own  life  in  the  story,  except,  perhaps,  the 
pages  about  engineering  patents.  On  the  other  hand,  Charles 
Heath  in  Alice- j 'or- Short  is  largely  reminiscent  of  my  own  life  as 
an  art-student — though  there  is  one  great  exception — Charles  did 
more  work  ! But  in  no  one  instance  is  there  an  actual  portrait 
drawn  as  such,  nor  an  actual  place  literally  portrayed.’  In  short, 
the  whole  was  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,  a phantasmagoria 
bred  of  events  that  once  had  happened,  of  ideas  once  absorbed, 
impressed  haphazard  into  a creation  distinct  from  reality.  The 
potter  moulds  his  pot  and  the  novelist  his  story  out  of  the  material 


264  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

ready  to  his  hand ; yet  in  their  new  guise  each  becomes  an 
original  conception  of  the  worker’s  brain. 

Thus  to  those  who  know  the  story  of  De  Morgan’s  life  previous 
to  his  literary  adventure,  an  essence,  but  not  a transcript,  of  those 
earlier  years  may  be  traced  in  much  which  he  wrote.  In  Dr. 
Thorpe  we  see  many  of  the  characteristics  of  his  father,  the 
shrewd,  kindly  Professor ; in  the  discovery  of  Joe’s  talent  for 
mathematics  we  recall  a similar  incident  of  the  Professor’s  own 
boyhood ; in  the  brain  and  speech  of  the  little  children  we  trace 
something  of  the  baby-boy  at  Fordhook — that  baby  with  the 
wonderful  forehead,  to  whose  outlook  on  life  De  Morgan  could 
still  revert  more  than  half  a century  afterwards — * I remember 
my  fourth  birthday  as  if  it  were  yesterday,’  he  had  written  at 
the  age  of  sixty-five.  In  Charles  Heath’s  denunciation  of  his 
own  incapacity,  as  later  in  the  lament  of  Eustace  John,  we 
read  the  writer’s  review  of  his  own  wasted  years.  Again,  in  his 
presentment  of  the  sordid  life  of  the  slums  we  seem  to  hear 
his  mother’s  piteous  tales  of  mid-Victorian  poverty — of  the 
alleys,  the  workhouses,  the  prisons,  the  asylums  of  her  youth ; 
while  in  other  descriptions  of  homely  life  we  recognize  his  own 
close  association  with  his  factory  hands. 

‘ There  are  comparatively  few  men  in  any  age,’  remarks  Mrs. 
Ady,  ‘ who  have  attained  distinction  in  two  separate  branches 
of  art.  Great  poet-painters  there  have  been,  it  is  true,  such 
as  Michelangelo  in  Italy  of  the  Renaissance,  and  Dante  Rossetti 
in  our  own  times,  but  there  was  generally  a close  connexion 
between  their  creations  in  the  different  arts.  Either  the  picture 
was  inspired  by  the  sonnet,  or  the  verses  gave  birth  to  the  painting. 
It  would  be  difficult  to  trace  any  connexion  between  De  Morgan’s 
tiles  and  the  novels  which  his  prolific  pen  poured  forth  in  his 
later  years.  Yet,  as  I have  often  heard  him  explain,  his  novels 
were  indirectly  the  result  of  his  work  as  a potter.  It  was  during 
these  first  fifty  years  of  his  life  when  he  was  busily  engaged  in 
making  experiments,  and  looking  about  for  boys  and  men  whom 
he  could  train  to  help  him,  that  he  acquired  the  familiarity  with 
the  working  classes  and  dwellers  in  the  slums  which  is  one  of  the 
most  striking  features  of  his  books.  The  close  and  daily  contact 
into  which  he  was  brought  with  his  own  potters,  listening  to  their 
talk  and  watching  them  at  work  as  he  sat  in  a corner  of  the 
factory  making  designs  or  meditating  new  inventions,  gave  him 
that  intimate  knowledge  of  their  habits  and  language,  that 
insight  into  the  points  of  view  and  prejudices  of  their  class  of 
which  he  writes  with  so  much  sympathy  and  kindly  humour.’ 

For  De  Morgan  showed  himself  a past-master  in  his  study  of 
the  mentality  and  mannerisms  of  the  homely  characters  of  whom 
he  wrote,  even  in  his  queer  trick  of  self-in volutioa  into  their 
personality  and  speech.  He  reproduced  faithfully  their  fashion 


William  De  Morgan 
From  a photograph 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  METHOD  265 

of  leaving  a sentence  incomplete  but  with  its  purport  clear ; of 
elaborating  with  picturesque  side-issues  information  which  might 
have  been  conveyed  in  a few  words.  He  understood  that  while 
a Product  of  Higher  Education  will  go  straight  to  the  point  in 
what  he  wishes  to  narrate,  the  Natural  Man  will  eschew  such 
prosaic  methods  and  first  wander  leisurely — interminably — in  a 
maze  of  his  own  cogitations.  But  in  regard  to  the  cockneyism 
which  De  Morgan  employed  so  effectively,  few  know  that  it  was 
the  outcome  of  a jest  of  his  youth — of  the  practice  of  years, 
the  dialect  facetiously  affected  by  his  early  companions — Rossetti, 
William  Morris,  Burne-Jones — in  their  reaction  against  their 
own  aestheticism  as  well  as  against  the  prim  and  stilted  diction 
approved  in  their  Victorian  youth. 

In  like  manner,  the  houses,  the  streets,  the  scenes  and  sur- 
roundings where  his  characters  live  and  move  and  have  their 
being,  are  all  constructed  out  of  the  collective  memories  of 
his  own  boyhood  and  manhood ; even  in  the  names  which  he 
employs  we  find  fresh  memories  of  real  life — often  distorted  with 
a hint  of  laughter.1 

In  his  account  of  the  * extensive  basement  with  cellarage  * 

at  No.  40 , Soho,  where  little  Alice-for-Short  saw  the  ghostly 

* lydy  with  black  spots/  and  where  later  Messrs.  Chappel  and 
Pole  carried  on  a business  in  stained  glass,  we  recognize  the 
basement  at  40  Fitzroy  Square,  where  De  Morgan  personally 
worked  at  stained  glass  in  the  early  days  of  his  career.  There, 
the  child  of  his  imagination,  little  Alice,  a pitiful  scrap  of 
humanity,  is  depicted  living  in  eternal  twilight  with  her  drunken 
father  and  mother,  the  monstrous  cats  and  the  intangible  ghosts. 
The  scene  of  the  dance,  on  the  contrary,  where  the  eighteenth- 
century  throng  disported  themselves  on  the  night  when  the 
lady  who  stole  the  fateful  ring  was  brutally  murdered,  is,  De 
Morgan  himself  admitted,  the  ball-room  in  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Siddons  in  Great  Marlborough  Street,  where  he  and  his  wife 
jointly  exhibited  pottery  and  pictures.  In  that  latter  house, 
moreover,  we  feel  the  atmosphere  of  the  story  more  imperatively, 
we  trace  the  exact  rooms  which  were  in  his  thoughts.  Again, 
there  is  an  ‘ extensive  basement/  gloomy  and  mysterious ; 
above  it  is  the  ground-floor  with  the  ball-room  aforesaid — in 
the  story  rented  by  the  picture-dealer ; the  first  floor  where 
Charles  Heath  had  his  studio  ; the  second  floor  belonging  to 
the  Misses  Prynne,  and  the  third  floor  where  the  odd  Mr.  Jerry- 
thought,  painted  and  soliloquized.  In  this  same  house,  however, 

1 ‘ Janey,’  it  will  be  remembered,  was  a nomenclature  familiar  to  De 
Morgan  from  his  early  days,  the  name  of  his  nurse  at  Fordhook.  ‘ The 
Pigeons,’  the  public-house  where  the  celebrated  quarrel  took  place  between 
Christopher  Vance  and  the  sweep,  Peter  Gunn,  is  a transposition  of  ‘ The 
Doves,’  the  ancient  hostelry  at  Hammersmith,  near  Kelmscott  House. 

‘ Peter  Gunn,’  we  see,  had  an  original  Jim  Cannon,  and  so  on  ad  infinitum. 


266 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


occurs  the  death  of  poor  Verrinder,  which  was  suggested  by  the 
sudden  death  in  her  sleep  of  Miss  Laura  Hertford,  who  rented 
a floor  at  40  Fitzroy  Square — an  event  which  made  a profound 
impression  on  De  Morgan  in  his  youth,  since  he  was  among 
those  who  forced  open  the  door  and  found  the  body.  Yet 
Verrinder  himself  was  drawn  from  one  of  De  Morgan's  contem- 
poraries at  the  Academy  schools,  an  old  and  pathetic  perennial 
student,  who  haunted  the  place,  and  who,  by  a strange  coinci- 
dence, bore  the  name  of  Pickering.  Thus  we  can  people  each 
building  with  the  creatures  of  the  author's  fancy,  and  recognize 
how  his  brain  took  a part  of  one  house  of  his  recollection,  and  a 
portion  of  another,  to  construct  the  whole  dwelling  of  his  dreams  ; 
and  how  he  modelled  his  characters  in  like  fashion. 

So,  too,  in  those  evanescent  but  persistent  ghosts  which  play 
such  a prominent  part  in  the  tale,  and  link  a shadowy  past  with 
a realistic  present,  one  feels  how  the  atmosphere  of  the  Occult 
in  which  he  had  been  brought  up  had  permeated  his  outlook 
upon  life,  uniting  the  Seen  and  the  Unseen  in  a romance  and 
sequence  which  fascinated  his  imagination  even  if  it  never 
wholly  convinced  his  reason.  Stories  of  uncanny  experiences 
which  happened  to  the  De  Morgan  family,  and  of  their  own 
attitude  towards  these,  recur  persistently  to  memory  as  one 
reads  the  tale  of  ghostly  visitants  in  De  Morgan’s  novels,  made 
more  convincing  in  Alice-j or- Short  by  the  halting  speech  and 
puzzled  sincerity  of  a little  child.  ‘ Bogy  things  come  and 
go  ' throughout  his  books,  but  the  author  himself  surveys  them 
with  an  air  of  detachment.  ‘ The  characters  discuss  the  ghostly 
appearances  from  their  different  angles ; but  “ the  Story  " [like  the 
Professor  and  his  son]  takes  no  angle  at  all.  It  merely  narrates.'  1 

There  is,  however,  one  other  outcome  of  the  past  on  which 
it  is  impossible  to  lay  too  much  stress  in  reviewing  the  matter 
and  the  manner  of  De  Morgan's  writing ; and  which,  in  the 
main,  was  the  keynote  of  his  success. 

Disraeli  has  said  that  ‘ books  written  by  boys  which  pretend 
to  deal  with  knowledge  and  give  a picture  of  human  nature 
must  necessarily  be  founded  on  affectation.'  It  is  only  after 
a lifetime  that,  from  the  Pisgah-heights  of  experience,  we  can 
view  existence  at  last  in  its  true  perspective — the  little  no  longer 
looming  big  or  the  big  little,  but  the  whole  mellowed  to  a just 
harmony  of  parts.  Yet  when  that  vantage  ground  is  gained, 
the  weariness  of  the  climb  is  upon  us  and  the  chances  are  that 
we  are  no  longer  able  to  impart  to  others  the  benefit  of  that 
wider  vision — and  so  we  fall  asleep  with  the  tale  untold.  ' Si 
jeunesse  savait — si  vieillesse  pouvait  ’ is  a regret  as  poignant  in 
literature  as  in  life ; and  De  Morgan  was  perhaps  unique  in 

1 William  De  Morgan.  A post-Victorian  Recital . by  F.  Warren  Seymour, 
[920. 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  METHOD 


267 

that  he  wrote  with  the  keenness,  the  freshness,  the  intuition  of 
Youth,  tempered  with  the  philosophy,  the  kindliness,  the  large- 
minded  vision  of  Age. 

* There  are  scenes  in  his  novels,’  The  Bookman  remarks,  ‘ that  if  a 
younger  man  had  written  them  might  have  been  merely  squalid  and 
repellent,  might  have  been  shrewdly  observed  and  cleverly  presented, 
with  something  of  cynical  attachment  or  with  gushes  of  pretty  and  false 
sentimentality  ; but  they  could  not  have  been  handled  with  the  largeness 
of  comprehension,  the  easy  charity,  the  kindly  humour  and  whimsical, 
gracious  forbearance  that  are  the  fruit  of  knowledge  only,  and  that 
enable  Mr.  De  Morgan  to  feel  and  reveal  the  whole  truth  instead  of  but 
half  of  it — the  piteousness  as  well  as  the  baseness  of  his  grimmest  incidents 
and  most  degrading  characters.  . . . 

* As  a consequence,  his  good  people  are  never  too  good,  and  you  do  not 
wholly  blame  his  sinners  when  he  has  told  you  all  about  them.  He  has 
seen  enough  of  life  to  be  always  ready  to  make  allowances  and  never 
ready  to  condemn  or  despise.  He  draws  you  some  besotted  human 
creature  with  a most  unflinching  realism,  then  changes  your  abhorrence 
into  sympathy  and  compassion  by  showing  you  in  a luminous  paragraph 
or  two  what  the  poor  wretch  used  to  be  and  how  he  grew  to  be  the  thing 
he  is.  This  profound  tenderness  for  human  weakness  is  an  undertone 
through  all  his  books.  . . . 

‘ He  makes  his  stories  satisfyingly  plausible  and  realistic  by  his  ingrained 
habit  of  looking  before  and  after.  He  cannot  even  see  a shivering,  withered 
old  crone  serving  out  a ha’porth  of  baked  chestnuts  over  her  charcoal 
fire  without  reflecting  that  those  skinny,  claw-like  hands  were  once  the 
beautiful  hands  of  a young  girl ; he  is  never  contented  to  sketch  the  least 
insignificant  of  his  characters  in  outline  only,  he  must  needs  give  you  the 
whole  man  and  the  whole  woman  by  deliberately  linking  up  their  to-days 
with  their  yesterdays,  so  that  you  know  their  dispositions,  the  environ- 
ments that  shaped  them,  the  motives  that  actuate  them,  and  can  guess 
how  they  will  behave  in  a given  crisis  before  the  crisis  is  upon  them.’ 

Thus,  in  Alice-for-Short,  after  describing  the  wonderful  scene 
where  the  fascinating  Peggy  and  little  Alice  visit  the  mother  of 
the  latter  as  she  lies  dying  in  the  hospital — a drunken  wreck  of 
humanity  battered  to  death  in  a squalid  row  by  the  equally 
besotted  husband  she  had  once  loved — the  reviewer  notes  how 
quietly  but  powerfully  De  Morgan  can  yet  make  one  feel  that 
that  repulsive,  drink-sodden  wretch  has  had  part  in  a far-away, 
far-other  past : — 

‘ No  younger  writer  could  have  written  that.  Its  whole  power  lies 
in  its  sheer  truthfulness  ; there  is  no  attempt  at  all  at  fine  writing  or 
idealized  dialogue.  I recall  pathetic  passages  from  many  great  novels, 
but  can  think  of  none  more  quietly  effective,  more  touching  in  its  sim- 
plicity of  narrative,  its  underlying  sense  of  tragedy,  its  covert  under- 
standing of,  and  pity  for,  human  error.’  1 

So  it  is  that  while  the  incidents  described  by  De  Morgan  are 
fictitious,  the  Self  underlying  the  whole  is  real.  It  is  his  own 
character  which  he  has  written  into  his  pages — it  breathes  from 
every  phrase — his  own  insight,  his  own  humour,  his  all-pervading 
tenderness,  his  large-hearted  understanding  of  his  fellow  creatures 
1 The  Bookman,  August,  1910. 


268  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

which  Time  had  wrought.  He  can  view  Life  with  an  unflagging 
sense  of  amusement ; he  can  see  humanity  with  a keen  recognition 
of  its  weakness ; but  there  is  never  a hint  of  bitterness  or  of 
sarcasm  in  his  delineation  of  the  foibles  of  his  fellows.  The 
cynicism  noticeable  in  Thackeray,  the  sense  of  caricature  and 
exaggeration  which  occasionally  mars  the  writing  of  Dickens, 
are  wholly  absent  from  the  imagination  of  De  Morgan.  4 In 
that  book  you  unpacked  your  mind/  a friend  once  said  to  him 
of  Joseph  Vance  ; and  he  is  just  an  old  man  talking  to  us 
genially  of  the  Past — of  people  he  has  known,  events  that  have 
happened,  conclusions  he  has  arrived  at,  of  by-gone  days  which 
to  him  are  dearer  than  the  Present ; while  his  very  garrulousness 
is  part  of  his  charm. 

* * * * * 

In  his  affinity  to  Dickens,  so  often  discussed,  De  Morgan's 
relation  is  primarily  to  the  Period,  not  to  the  Man.  Dickens,  as 
we  have  seen,  represented  the  Zeitgeist  of  his  youth.  The 
atmosphere  which  he  had  breathed  ‘ when  all  the  world  was 
young  5 and  his  mind  plastic,  had  been  permeated  with  the 
spirit,  the  spell,  the  wonderment  of  the  great  novelist ; but, 
above  all,  it  was  his  own  world.  The  people  he  had  talked  to 
and  of,  the  people  with  whom  he  was  one,  are  those  depicted 
in  the  pages  of  Dickens.  The  early  photographs  of  De  Morgan 
illustrate  this  in  a manner  which,  to  us  of  a later  generation,  is 
almost  startling,  for  they  represent  a youth  who  in  dress,  in 
appearance — and  one  feels  in  speech — might  have  stepped  from 
the  pages  of  David  Copper  field.  ' We  had  not  read  far  into 
Joseph  Vance  before  we  shouted  * ( Dickens  Redivivus ! wrote 
Professor  Phelps ; ‘ but/  he  added,  ‘ it  was  not  an  imitation ; 
it  was  a reincarnation/  It  was  more — it  was  a survival. 

Between  Dickens  and  De  Morgan  there  exists  indeed  that 
similarity  of  date  and  manner ; but  the  achievement  of  each 
remains  distinct  and  individual.  ‘ If  Dickens  had  never  written 
a word,  your  novels  would  be  just  as  they  are  ! ’ wrote  Mrs.  Drew. 
Both,  it  is  true,  painted  on  a broad  canvas  ; both  delighted  in  a 
number  of  subsidiary  characters — in  one  of  De  Morgan’s  novels 
no  fewer  than  forty-two  dramatis-personce  are  introduced ; both 
loved  to  develop  in  ample,  leisurely  fashion  an  old-time  romance 
with  plot  and  counter-plot ; but  there  are  essential  points  of 
difference  between  the  men  and  their  methods  which  no  super- 
ficial similarity  can  disguise. 

For  one,  whereas  Dickens  relates  a story  and  tells  you  about 
the  puppets  which  figure  in  it,  we  have  seen  that  De  Morgan 
allows  the  creatures  of  his  fancy  to  reveal  themselves.  When 
he  is  not  soliloquizing,  or  talking  confidentially,  the  tragi-comedy 
of  his  narrative  unfolds  itself  entirely  out  of  the  clipped,  colloquial 
dialogue  of  the  actors  ; he  gets  his  most  telling  effects  bv  a 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  METHOD  269 

sequence  so  simple,  so  intensely  human  that  one  scarcely  recog- 
nises its  profundity  till  this  has  stamped  itself  upon  one’s  imagi- 
nation indelibly.  ‘ The  astonishing  freshness  and  charm  of 
Mr.  De  Morgan’s  method,’  wrote  Professor  Phelps,  ‘ consist 
partly  in  his  abandonment  of  literary  precedent,  and  adhering 
only  to  actual  observation.  It  is  as  though  an  actor  on  the 
stage  should  suddenly  drop  his  mannerism  of  accent  and  gesture 
and  behave  as  he  would  were  he  actually,  instead  of  histrionically, 
happy  or  wretched.’  His  pathos  and  his  insight  are  thus  greater 
than  that  of  Dickens  because  they  follow  a closer  parallel  to 
nature ; his  humour,  to  a modern  ear,  is  more  spontaneous, 
because  to-day  the  humour  of  Dickens  has  necessarily  diminished 
in  flavour  like  the  grotesque  wit  of  Cruikshank’s  drawings  which 
illustrate  it.  De  Morgan’s  laughter  is  infectious — not  because 
he  caricatures  life,  but  because  he  presents  life  as  it  is  with  its 
familiar  eccentricities,  its  inconsistencies,  its  bathos,  its  grandeur 
held  up  afresh  for  our  inspection  like  homely  objects  in  the 
added  brightness  of  a mirror. 

* Dickens  caricatures ; De  Morgan  characterizes,’  pithily 
wrote  another  American  author.1  Even  if  he  describes  the 
actions  of  a child,  or  the  mo v< aments  of  a dog,  he  projects  himself 
for  the  time  being  into  the  infantine  or  the  canine  mind  with  a 
success  which  is  mirth-provoking.  Words  and  phrases  of  his 
cling  to  remembrance  from  their  absurdity — their  aptness  : the 
‘ tame-cat-ability  ’ of  certain  folk  ; the  resemblance  of  another 
character  to  ‘ a fretful  porcupine  ’ ; the  opinion  of  little  Dave  in 
regard  to  Age  and  Experience  that  ‘ they  never  climb  up  posts 
without  some  safeguard  of  being  able  to  come  down  again  ’ ; 
Lady  Ancaster  smiling  in  4 a well-bred  way — a Debretticent  way — 
call  it  ’ ; or  Aunt  Izzy  ‘ cherishing  memories  of  people  almost  too 
well-connected  to  live  ’ ; or  again  some  one  of  less  refined  instincts 
rejoicing  blandly  in  an  ‘ Alco-holiday.’  The  character  of  Chris- 
topher Vance,  the  vulgar  but  loveable  father  of  Joe,  is  a crowning 
illustration  of  De  Morgan’s  manner,  not  because  it  is  fantastic, 
but  because  of  its  complete  verisimilitude  to  the  type  it  repre- 
sents ; just  as  the  meal- times  of  the  Heath  family  in  Alice-for- 
Skort  provide  a fund  of  entertainment  produced  solely  out  of 
the  faithfulness  of  the  picture. 

Moreover,  unlike  William  Morris,  and  unlike  Dickens,  De 
Morgan  does  not  preach  the  ‘ divine  gospel  of  Discon- 
tent.’ His  affection  for  his  fellows  is  equally  all-embracing ; 
but  the  social  chasms  which  exist  he  bridges  over  with  love  and 
not  resentment.  At  times  he  is  not  altogether  aware  of  the 
existence  of  the  chasms.  Admittedly,  the  plumber  who  comes 
to  do  your  drains  is  not  the  man  whom  you  will  ultimately 
invite  to  your  daughter’s  wedding,  as  happens  in  Joseph  Vance , 
1 F.  Warren  Seymour. 


270  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

more  especially  if  his  conversation  is  aggressively  vulgar  and 
he  has  a predisposition  to  get  drunk.  In  real  life  Dr.  Thorpe 
would  have  adopted  Joe  on  condition  that  his  father  never 
came  near  the  house ; and  Joe,  educated  above  his  station, 
would  have  been  hypersensitive  to  his  father’s  failings.  But 
De  Morgan  is  unconscious  of  such  a possibility.  To  him,  the 
only  recognizable  snobbishness  lies  in  a man  aping  that  which 
he  is  not.  Christopher,  even  in  the  tall  hat  which  marks  his 
advance  in  the  social  scale,  is  delightful  to  the  last ; as  Beppino, 
the  decadent  son  of  Dr.  Thorpe,  is  unspeakably  offensive. 
Further,  it  is  worth  remark  that  the  same  trait  is  prominent  in 
the  novel  written  by  Mary  De  Morgan,  wherein  the  heroine 
treats  her  charming  maid  as  an  equal,  and  kisses  and  confides 
in  her  with  unhesitating  affection.  Both  brother  and  sister, 
as  authors,  could,  with  an  infinite  delicacy  of  touch,  make  merry 
over  the  superficial  vagaries  of  character,  but  neither  ever  left 
a reader  in  any  doubt  concerning  the  quality  of  the  heart  beneath. 

‘ There  are,  however,  certain  critics,’  complained  an  American 
to  De  Morgan,  ‘ who  can  never  understand  anything  except  by 
comparing  it  with  something  else  they  have  known  ’ ; and  to 
these  De  Morgan’s  likeness  to  or  divergence  from  his  literary 
prototype  afforded  a never-failing  topic  of  discussion,  in  which 
he  unhesitatingly  shared,  but  always  with  the  humility  of  a great 
reverence.  ‘ Dickens  was  the  Master  at  whose  feet  I sat ! * he 
pronounced  of  himself ; and  it  was  part  of  the  simplicity  of 
his  character  that  where  another  man  would  have  been  annoyed 
at  being  called  an  imitator,  he  was  proud  of  the  imputation, 
but  ready  to  dispute  the  conclusion  swiftly  arrived  at  by  his 
reviewers  that  ‘ all  such  comparisons  are  absurd,  for  the  dis- 
tinction, the  individuality  of  Mr.  De  Morgan’s  writing  is  very 
much  greater  than  its  similarity  to  any  other  known  author.’ 
None  the  less,  his  suggested  likeness  to  a writer  of  a later 
date  caused  him  some  perplexity. 

E.  Nesbit  to  William  De  Morgan . 

‘ April  2.7th,  1907. 

* My  dear  Sir, — 

‘ When  first  I read  your  Joseph  Vance  I wanted  to  write  and  thank 
you  for  it.  But  I felt  I had  no  right  to  bother  you  with  my  appreciation. 
Now,  however,  I have  read  the  book  eight  times,  and  though  that  gives 
me  no  more  right,  it  does  give  me  more  excuse. 

‘ Joseph  Vance  is  a great  work  of  art  in  a certain  genre  unapproached 
by  any  living  author.  Reviewers  have  said  that  your  style  is  like  that  of 
Dickens.  I think  it  is,  in  certain  points.  But  he  was  always  coming 
to  grief  from  lack  of  taste — and  you  never  do.  Also  he  forced,  often  and 
far  too  often,  flowers  which  grow  so  naturally  and  beautifully  in  your 
garden.  The  one  author  whom  you  really  resemble — and  no  one  else 
has  ever  come  near  to  resembling  him — is  Henry  Kingsley.  And  you 
seem  to  me  to  beat  him  at  his  own  game. 

‘ Your  book  is  a beautiful  book,  wise  and  witty  and  tender.  1 believe 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  METHOD 


271 

it  will  be  living  and  beloved  when  most  of  our  present-day  novelists  are 
dust  and  their  works  have  perished  with  them. 

‘ I have  written  a good  many  books  myself,  and  I can  understand  and 
honour  the  long  patience,  the  ungrudged  toil,  the  steadfast  purpose  that 
you  have  given  to  the  making  of  this  book.  It  is  as  a journeyman  in  the 
Guild  wherein  you  are  a Master,  and  as  a human  being  who  loves  the 
human  beings  you  have  made,  that  I have  found  myself  unable  any 
longer  to  keep  from  thanking  you.’ 

4 1 am  puzzled  about  Kingsley/  De  Morgan  wrote  in  reference 
to  this  letter.  * I admire  him,  but  don’t  feel  in  the  least  like 
him.  Whereas  I am  so  conscious  of  my  own  rapport  with 
Dickens,  that  whatever  I write  (in  his  hunting  grounds)  I have 
to  think  all  through  his  works  to  make  sure  it  isn’t  simple  plunder  ! 
All  through — honour  bright ! * 

It  is  interesting,  therefore,  to  hear  from  De  Morgan’s  own 
pen  his  opinion  of  his  two  great  predecessors  in  fiction. 

When  the  hundredth  anniversary  of  Thackeray’s  birth  was 
celebrated,  one  of  the  points  on  which  it  was  wished  to  get  a 
consensus  of  the  opinions  of  noted  men  was  the  time-honoured 
question : Was  Thackeray  a cynic  ? De  Morgan  expressed 
himself  as  follows  : — 

‘ The  youth  who  was  asked  for  his  definition  of  a rhomboid  replied — 
“ That  depends  on  what  you  call  a rhomboid.” 

‘ In  reply  to  the  question  your  letter  asks  me,  I can  only  say  that  it 
depends  on  what  you  call  a cynic,  whether  Thackeray  deserved  that  name 
or  not. 

‘ I gather  from  the  nearest  book  of  reference  that  I can  lay  hands  on 
at  this  moment  that  the  Cynics  “ neglected  the  conveniences  of  life”  and 
ultimately  “ became  so  disgusting  from  their  impudence,  dirty  habits,  and 
begging,  that  they  ceased  to  be  regarded  with  any  respect .” 

‘ I have  therefore  every  reason  to  believe,  although  I had  not  the 
good  fortune  to  know  him,  that  William  Makepeace  Thackeray  was  not, 
historically  speaking,  a Cynic. 

‘ The  non-historical  definition  seems  to  be  “ an  ill-natured  person 
who  says  bitter  things.”  But  the  bitterest  things  are  always  said — at 
least  such  is  my  experience — by  the  most  tender-hearted  people.  If  my 
belief  is  right,  Thackeray  has  still  a chance  of  being  called  a cynic  rightly. 

' I do  not  think  it  important  to  decide  whether  he  was,  or  was  not,  a 
cynic.  I wish  more  cynics  were  Thackeray s.’ 

When  the  Dickens  Centenary  was  celebrated  the  next  year, 
De  Morgan,  who  had  been  recently  termed  ‘ the  Twentieth 
Century  Dickens,’  was  asked  by  the  Dickens  Society  to  contri- 
bute any  recollections  of  the  novelist  whose  memory  they  wished 
to  commemorate.  ‘ I make  no  protest  about  the  “ Twentieth 
Century  Dickens  ! " ' he  wrote  in  an  aside  to  Heinemann.  ‘ It’s 
rather  rough  on  the  century,  though  ! What  sort  of  a Dickens 
will  the  Centuries  have  when  they  come  of  age,  at  this  rate  ? ’ 
But  among  his  papers  are  the  following  pencilled  jottings  : — 

‘ 127  Church  Street. 

* (1)  Unhappily  I have  no  personal  recollections — I wish  it  were 
otherwise. 


272  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

* (2)  In  my  opinion  I owe  to  Dickens  everything  that  a pupil  can  owe 
to  a master — to  the  head  master.  Whether  I have  succeeded  in  rising 
above  mere  imitation  I can’t  say — I must  leave  the  point  to  my  readers. 
My  own  memory  of  Charles  Dickens  is  simply  one  of  unmixed  gratitude 
and  plenary  acknowledgment  of  obligation. 

‘ (3)  It  is  impossible  to  assign  a value  to  any  works  without  a standard 
of  comparison.  In  the  case  of  the  two  great  novelists  of  last  century, 
Charles  Dickens  and  William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  there  is  no  such  unit 
among  English  writers,  except  Shakespeare.  To  make  such  a comparison 
would  be  presumptuous,  unless  one  had  given  to  it  the  study  of  a lifetime. 

‘ (4)  Humour  always  appeals  most  to  its  own  age — keeping  this  in 
view,  I should  say  Dickens’s  humour  showed  an  exceptional  vitality.  I 
meet  people  now  and  then  who  deny  it,  but  have  found  their  own  samples 
of  humour,  produced  at  request,  the  reverse  of  exhilarating. 

* (5)  I think  there  can  be  no  doubt  which  is  his  greatest  book.  But 
autobiographic  parallel  is  such  a powerful  engine  in  fiction  that  it  is 
scarcely  fair  to  place  his  other  works  in  competition  with  it.  Conceive 
the  difficulties  of  writing  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities  as  against  David  Copper- 
field' 

In  one  point  De  Morgan  differentiated  between  the  work  of 
Dickens  and  that  of  Thackeray.  He  thought  that  Thackeray 
was  inclined  to  repeat  a type  he  had  once  successfully  created, 
whereas  Dickens  always  had  a freshly  individualized  character 
for  even  a single  appearance.  There  is,  however,  in  De  Morgan’s 
own  writing  one  element  which  is  absent  from  the  works  of  both 
the  earlier  novelists.  They,  of  their  very  period,  were  forced 
to  eschew  what  their  successor  terms  * orthodoubt.’  De  Morgan, 
on  the  contrary,  does  not  deal  merely  with  this  world  in  his 
analysis  of  humanity ; he  links  the  actual  and  the  possible  in 
one  consecutive  romance,  and  probes  into  the  wherefore  of  Life 
with  a happy  mingling  of  science  and  philosophy.  His  meta- 
physical speculations  on  the  whence  and  whither  of  the  human 
ego  have  a value  beyond  that  of  the  mere  ingenious  telling  of  a 
tale.  Few  that  had  once  read  it,  lightly  forgot  the  conversation 
at  Poplar  Villa  on  the  Ghost  in  the  Corpse,  based  on  the  lines  : — 

* Body  and  Spirit  are  twins — God  only  knows  which  is  which, 

The  Soul  squats  down  in  the  flesh  like  a tinker  drunk  in  a ditch.’ 

And  Dr.  Thorpe’s  quaint  summing  up  of  the  position  : — 

‘ There  are  two  distinct  classes  of  people  in  the  world  : those  that  feel 
they  are  themselves  in  a body  ; and  those  that  feel  they  themselves  are 
a body,  with  something  working  it.  I feel  like  the  contents  of  a bottle, 
and  am  very  curious  to  know  what  will  happen  when  the  bottle  is  un- 
corked. ...  You  never  told  us  which  you  feel  like — the  contents  of  the 
bottle,  or  the  bottle  itself  ? ’ 

And  again  : — 

* “ Do  you  see  your  way,  Thorpe  [Professor  Absalom  asks]  to  any 
conclusions  about  the  hereafter  itself  ? Anything  that  throws  light  on 
what  and  where  the  Ghost  is  when  its  Corpse  is  insolvent,  and  in  liquida- 
tion, with  all  the  Capital  withdrawn  ? Because  that’s  the  Crux  ! ” 

‘ “ That’s  the  Crux,  of  course  [Dr.  Thorpe  replies].  But  beyond  the 
physical  feeling  I have  spoken  of — little  but  speculation.  The  tendency 


“Persian”  vase,  egg-shaped,  painted  in  colours  on  a turquoise-blue  ground  with 

growing  flowers. 

Height  6%  inches.  Diameter  5%  inches. 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  METHOD  273 

of  it  has  been  towards  attaching  weight  to  inferences  to  be  drawn  from 
what  we  know  of  the  Spirit  in  the  Flesh,  the  Ghost  in  the  Corpse,  rather 
than  to  those  that  follow  from  what  are  supposed  to  be  communications 
from  the  other  side.  Some  of  these  may  be  true,  or  may  not.  I have 
always  felt  on  quicksands  when  I have  been  tempted  to  go  to  Bogy 
seances,  as  Janey  calls  them.  The  authentic  story  of  one  day  is  the 
hoax  of  the  next.  But  what  we  can  see  in  the  strange  phenomena  other 
people  is  safe  to  go  upon ” * 

And  after  dwelling  on  the  problem  of  the  development,  or 
of  the  stunted  growth,  of  the  Spirit  observable  in  the  human 
units  with  whom  he  is  surrounded,  he  draws  a comparison  between 
the  unborn  child  on  the  one  hand  and  the  unborn,  or  undeveloped 
soul,  on  the  other. 

* " Who  shall  say  that  the  unborn  child  in  its  degree  does  not  learn 
as  much  of  this  world  as  we  succeed  in  learning  of  the  next  ? The  physio- 
logist is  satisfied  that  the  unborn  child  knows  nothing  and  can  receive  no 
impressions,  but  then  the  physiologist  is  satisfied  also  that  he  himself  is 
what  your  young  friend,  Joe — -you  remember — called  ...  a wunner  at 
knowing  things,  and  I suspect  for  my  part  that  he  knows  just  as  little  of 
what  he  doesn’t  know  at  all  as  he  did  before  he  was  born.  In  fact,  the 
soul  during  gestation  has  only  a pro-rata  anticipation  of  what  is  before 
it.  Of  course,  the  comparison  suggests  all  sorts  of  parallels,  some  of  them 
uncomfortable  ones.” 

‘ “ For  instance,  Thorpe  ? ” 

* " Well — for  instance — what  is  the  soul-parallel  of  the  child  that 
dies  unborn  ? ” 

* " The  death  of  the  Ghost  in  the  Corpse,”  we  all  spoke  simultaneously. 

* **  Exactly.  Do  you  find  the  notion  comfortable  ? I don’t.  But  I 
do  derive  a good  deal  of  satisfaction  from  its  opposite — the  maturity  of 
the  Ghost  in  the  Corpse.  . . . It  is  the  keynote  of  my  philosophy  in  this 
matter.  The  sacramental  word  growth . If  I am  right,  a long  life  to 
him  is  the  best  wish  we  can  offer  any  man.  At  any  rate,  he  has  the 
opportunity  of  growing  up,  though  of  course  he  may  avail  himself  of 
equal  opportunities  of  growing  down  or  sideways — developing  as  a mon- 
strosity, in  fact  ! ” . . .’ 

And  again  he  enlarged  upon  this  theme:— 

* ...  I busy  myself  keeping  a close  eye  on  the  queerest  of  Phenomena, 
Somebody  Else  ; and  what  I see  tends  to  confirm  rather  than  unsettle  my 
ideas.  Ever  since  I began  to  look  at  this  Phenomenon  from  my  new  point 
of  view,  I fancy  I have  got  more  and  more  able  to  discriminate  and  classify 
him — he  almost  always  presents  himself  to  me  now  as  a growing,  decreasing, 
or  stationary  Ghost.  The  last  class  is  the  largest,  and  the  first  the  smallest. 
Sometimes  I am  able  to  account  for  a nice  child  turning  out  a nasty  man 
by  supposing  that  his  Ghost  is  still  a baby,  and  has  no  control  over  his 
Corpse.  Sometimes  I am  confronted  with  an  instance  of  an  attractive 
old  age  following  a detestable  youth.  I can  only  surmise  that  it  is  due  to 
maturing  of  the  contents  of  the  bottle. 

You  are  not  always  as  mad  as  you  seem,  Thorpe,”  said  Professor 
Absalom.  “ I discern  redeeming  features  in  your  present  aberration. 
In  fact,  I should  say  that  the  idea  of  growth  being  the  greatest  good  is  the 
natural  correlative  of  my  old  notion  that  frustration  is  the  greatest  evil.” 

It  is,  however,  doing  an  injustice  to  conclusions  often  as 
fascinating  as  they  are  subtle  to  quote  from  them  extracts  without 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


274 

the  context  and  so  leave  the  argument  faulty,  because  incomplete. 
But  still  more  characteristic,  perhaps,  is  another  mention  by 
De  Morgan  of  his  views  on  a future  life : — 

‘ His  confidence  in  a hereafter  [he  says  of  one  of  his  characters] 
was  so  strong  that  it  often  bubbled  up  like  this  and  could  not  be  kept 
down.  . . . After  all,  it’s  a question  of  one’s  sense  of  humour.  If  I were 
to  catch  myself  non-existing  after  death,  I should  simply  die  of  laughter. 
It  would  really  be  too  absurd  if  the  thing  that  did  the  knowing  stopped 
and  the  known  was  left  entirely  to  its  own  devices  ! ’ 

Yet  De  Morgan  did  not  cherish  a belief  in  the  immortality 
of  the  individual  ego  from  the  standpoint  that,  this  world  being 
pre-eminently  unsatisfactory  involves,  in  common  justice,  the 
existence  of  a future  Elysium  as  an  antidote.  When  a con- 
versation to  this  effect  took  place  in  his  presence,  he  remarked 
inconsequently — ‘ I don’t  know  that  I want  a future  life — I 
have  been  very  contented.’ 

* But  of  course  you  do  ! ’ exclaimed  his  wife  vehemently. 
4 Otherwise  everything  would  be  so  meaningless  ! ’ 

A third  person  thereupon  pointed  out  that  they  both  shared 
the  fallacy  common  to  all  disputants  on  this  subject — a con- 
viction that  the  ruling  of  an  inexorable  Destiny  was  determined 
by  their  individual  wishes  ! 

In  all  De  Morgan’s  speculations,  however,  concerning  the 
whence  and  whither  of  the  human  ego — utterances  which  come 
now,  alas  ! like  a voice  from  beyond  the  grave — one  is  reminded 
of  Browning’s  verdict : — 

* The  soul  doubtless  is  immortal — where  a soul  can  be  discerned  ! * 

And  in  this  connexion  we  find  him  writing  to  a friend  : 
4 1 never  thought  when  I was  young  that  any  writer  could  be  so 
precious  to  me  (apart  from  all  his  other  greatnesses)  as  an  apostle 
of  immortality  as  Browning — perhaps  I ought  to  say  the  apostle 
of  immortality — because  all  the  others  (modern)  twitter  and 
are  half-hearted.’  Yet  he  concedes  that  ‘ a certain  amount  of 
nervousness  about  Eternity  is  inseparable  from  our  want  of 
authentic  information  ’ ; and  once  he  refers  with  a note  of  envy 
to  * that  entirely  self-satisfied  thing — a non-Entity  ! ' 

An  inconvenient  habit  which  he  developed  after  he  had  taken 
to  authorship  was  to  jot  down  at  random  on  any  blank  paper 
handy  the  stray  thoughts  which  drifted  through  his  active  brain. 
This  had  obvious  disadvantages,  for,  just  as  a portion  of  Joseph 
Vance  had  been  scribbled  in  the  washing-book,  so  his  wife,  one 
day  on  examining  the  butcher’s  book,  discovered  a crucial 
problem  therein  dealt  with  in  a pencilling  by  her  husband : — 

* John  has  a Soul — upon  the  whole 
The  tombstone’s  wrong  that  says  “ Hie  Jacet  ” ; 

But  if  John  really  has  a Soul 

What  sort  of  thing  is  John  who  has  it  ? * 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  METHOD 


275 

None  the  less,  when  Death  approached  De  Morgan's  own 
citadel  he  met  the  severance  which  it  wrought  with  the  unflinching 
bravery  yet  profound  humility  of  a mind  which,  while  it  accepts 
a great  Hope,  refuses  to  confound  this  with  the  certainty  so  easy 
of  attainment  to  a more  limited  intelligence.  It  was  perhaps 
doubly  cruel,  in  the  first  flush  of  his  literary  success  and  his 
pleased  recognition  that  fame  had  at  last  come  to  gild  life  with 
a new  meaning  for  him,  that  news  should  reach  him  of  the  unex- 
pected death  of  his  sister  Mary,  leaving  him  thus  the  sole  survivor 
of  that  once  brilliant,  vivacious  home-circle  each  member  of 
which  had  received  his  or  her  quietus  in  the  fulness  of  life.  Yet, 
even  so,  the  theme  of  the  Waldstein  Sonata — that  echo  of  his 
far-away  youth — still  drifted  down  the  years  and  whispered 
its  message  to  him  that  Death  is  not  a terminus  but  a portal. 

William  De  Morgan  to  Lady  Burne- Jones  and  Mrs.  MackaiL 

‘ (Levanto — but  write  to  London  Address) 

‘29.  5.  07. 

* My  dear  Georgie  and  Margot, — 

‘ Your  letters  were  a pleasure  to  me  to  receive — made  me  grateful 
to  you  for  wanting  to  say  that,  and  to  your  Maker  for  making  you  able 
to  say  it  so  well. 

‘ I had  a letter  too,  and  a very,  very  nice  one  from  dear  old  Phil.1 
He  and  Mary  always  pulled  well  together  in  old  times.  I must  write  to 
Phil  to  renew  my  loss  of  touch  with  him.  I have  let  slip  so  much  through 
this  Italian  sequestration. 

‘ Yes — this  loss  has  been  a shell  into  my  citadel  and  all  the  garrison, 
my  faculties,  are  busy  preventing  the  fire  extending  to  the  magazine. 

‘ This  line  is  really  just  to  give  you  the  substance  of  what  I have 
heard  of  the  end  of  things  in  Egypt.  She  was  in  March  badly  ill  with 
some  enteric  malady,  and  a complication.  She  wrote  to  me  of  thi£,  but 
said  she  had  been  cured  by  a native  remedy  compiled  by  an  Arab  cook 
and  a Nubian  prison  warder.  I felt  no  added  uneasiness  because  of  this. 
Later,  her  friend..  Mrs.  Elgood,  who  has  been  angelic  to  her,  and  who 
writes  me  all  I know,  found  her  seriously  ill  at  Helouan — (but  always, 
she  says,  attended  by  a doctor  of  repute)  ; and  had  her  moved  to  the 
German  hospital  in  Cairo.  The  only  scrap  of  satisfaction  I can  get  from 
Mrs.  E.’s  letter,  which  I will  show  you  when  I come,  is  that  when  she  said 
that  I was  coming,  Mary  was  able  to  understand.  Had  there  been  a boat 
going  within  36  hours,  I should  have  been  on  my  way. 

‘ Well  ! I am  quite  ready  for  either  Extinction  or  Extension,  whichever 
and  whenever.  Only  if  the  latter,  all  I stipulate  for  is  absolute  good,  on 
the  terms  that  the  Master  shall  manage  it,  and  that  we  shall  all  be  safe- 
guarded against  the  rack  of  this  tough  world.  Goodbye,  my  dears  I 
Love  to  the  infants  that  read  her  stories — the  other  day  ! 

‘Your  affte, 

‘ Wm.  De  Morgan.’ 

And  once,  at  a later  date,  he  wrote  : * The  Grave  shall  not 
be  vilipended.  To  the  perfectly  healthy  mind  (mine)  it  appeals 
with  a double  suggestion — the  satisfaction  of  one’s  unbounded 
curiosity  about  what  next , and  the  alternative  of  honest  extinction 
—a  great  luxury  looked  at  rightly.’ 


1 Sir  Philip  Burne-Jones,  Bt. 


CHAPTER  XII 

‘ ALICE  ’ AND  4 SALLY  * 

1907-1908 

‘ ¥ T is  so  strange/  De  Morgan  wrote  in  1907,  * to  sit  here  in 
JL  Florence  and  look  out  at  the  Duomo  and  St.  Lorenzo, 
and  then  go  back  to  “ washing  chintz  on  the  Wandle  ! ” When 
I saw  that  place  first  in  ’81  it  was  all  arranged  that  I should 
make  tiles  and  pots  there.  Now  the  tiles  and  pots  have  van- 
ished like  a dream — a very  insolvent  dream  ! — and  I have  turned 
turtle  and  am  afloat  on  a sea  of  Literature.  Which  is  rumness, 
ain’t  it  ? as  the  pot-boy  said  at  the  Fellowship  Porter’s/ 

‘ I have  seen  nothing  of  the  ex-factory,’  he  wrote  sadly,  none 
the  less,  * and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  old  processes  are 
packed  away  in  the  garden  here.  Will  they  ever  be  brought  out 
again,  I wonder  ? ’ But  Lady  Burne-Jones  wrote  to  him  with- 
out regret  : ‘ There  is  something  infinitely  comfortable  in  the 
idea  of  all  the  men  and  the  furnaces  and  the  " works  ” generally 
that  stood  between  you  and  the  world  having  vanished,  and  just 
your  Self  is  left  speaking  exactly  as  you  wish,  by  means  of  a 
bottle  of  ink,  a pen  and  a sheet  of  paper.’ 

Before  his  second  book  made  its  appearance  De  Morgan 
wrote  to  Mr.  Vance  : — 

‘ I have  told  Heinemann  to  post  you  a copy  of  my  forth- 
comer  as  soon  as  it  forthcomes.  Alice- j 'or- Short  is  the  title,  with 
the  sub-title  A Dichronism,  which  I hope  will  explain  itself  to 
whoever  succeeds  in  wading  through  530  mortal  pages  of  print. 
It  is  an  odd  attempt  to  weave  events  over  a century  apart  into 
consecutive  narrative,  by  means  of  cataleptics  and  ghosts,  and 
sich  like. 

‘ Your  namesake  had  had  a fair  circulation  in  England  up  to 
Christmas.  Whether  he  has  died  out  since  then  I know  not,  and 
shall  hardly  dare  to  ask  Heinemann  when  I get  back,  for  fear  of 
a long  face  of  disappointment.  The  effect  of  Alice  on  Joe  may 
be  good. 

‘ I feel,  in  reading  a story  like  your  last,  what  a terrible 
drawback  to  enjoying  it  properly  my  ignorance  of  all  things 
modern  is.  Motor-cars  are  a terra  incognita  to  me,  unless 
indeed  one  spells  “ terra  ” tenor.  They  are  that,  for  they  have 

276 


•ALICE'  AND  ‘SALLY'  277 

frightened  me  and  my  humble  bicycle  off  the  road.  While  as 
for  telephones,  I can’t  talk  through  them  when  I try.  And  I shut 
my  eyes  tight,  which  is  needless,  and  shout  and  gasp  and  don’t 
believe  I’m  speaking  to  the  right  person.  Nor  am  I,  sometimes. 
Last  time  I tried  ’phoning  I was  told  it  was  twins,  and  her  lady- 
ship was  doing  well ! The  fact  is,  I wasn’t  born  to  be  contem- 
porary, at  this  current  epoch.  The  old  Italian  town  we  stayed 
a week  at  on  the  way  to  Genoa  is  my  sort — even  water  carried 
on  pack-mules — no  wheels  known,  hardly  ! 

‘ I shall  hope  that  we  may  meet  in  London ; it  will  be  a 
curious  experience  to  me  (as  perhaps  to  you)  to  correct  epistolary 
impressions  from  autopsy.’ 

Later  Mr.  Vance  wrote  sending  a portrait  and  character- 
sketch  of  his  ancestor,  Governor  Joseph  Vance,  * who,  if  I am 
not  mistaken,  was  a sort  of  a contemporary  of  your  Joseph 
Vance — who  wasn’t,  but  is  ! ’ De  Morgan  replied : — 

* The  interesting  document  has  just  come  and  given  me  a 
feeling  traceably  like  that  of  hearing  of  a new  connexion  or 
relation  ! 

* Governor  Vance  must  have  been  a fine  old  boy,  and  when 
we  are  all  ancient  history  will  make  a part  of  one  of  its  most 
interesting  stories — for  certainly  the  merging  of  the  Georgian 
(even  Jacobean  and  Elizabethan)  bygones  in  the  new  life  of  the 
new  land  will  have  a Thermopylae-and-Marathon  interest  for  our 
remote  successors — if  any  survive  the  next  new  inventions  and 
discoveries  ! 

* Here  is  a funny  thought  that  crossed  my  mind  as  I looked 
at  the  old  gentleman’s  portrait.  If,  when  I was  just  born  in  ’39, 
anyone  had  tried  to  invent  an  improbable  way  in  which  I should 
develop  a sort  of  link  with  the  last  Governor  of  Ohio  (then 
resting,  I suppose,  after  official  life),  could  he  have  hit  upon 
anything  more  improbable  than  the  actual  about-to-be,  viz.  : 
that  I should  live  63  mortal  years  (just  the  old  boy’s  life  at  that 
date)  and  then  use  his  name  for  a novel,  and  that  my  knowledge 
of  him  should  come  to  me  because  his  great-grand-nephew 
Joseph  would  be  novel-writing  too  ? 

* Anyhow,  if  he  did  hit  upon  the  truth,  and  prophesy  right, 
he  would  have  been  careful  to  add  that  the  opinion  of  the  great- 
grand-nephew  about  the  publications  of  that  there  baby  would 
give  the  person  he  was  going  to  grow  to  very  great  pleasure,  and 
that  he  thanked  him  con  amove.  I am  indeed  glad  you  and  Mrs. 
Vance  are  so  pleased  with  No.  2.  I hope  we  shan’t  have  a 
collapse  over  our  nexts , either  of  us — come  down  like  rocket  sticks  ! 

‘ I am  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  that  you  are  concentrating 
on  a book  less  aimed  at  the  railway  reader — and  his  love-im- 
patient public.  As  in  the  Fine  Arts,  the  world  is  all  confused 
and  sweating  with  its  own  scramble  up-to-date.  We  want  a lull 


278  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

in  a quiet  corner,  to  recapitulate  and  look  round — a pause  for 
refreshment. 

* I hope  a regular  good  unmistakable  success  of  Terence  and 
the  Private  War  will  supply  you  with  a happy  oasis,  in  which 
you  may  indulge  a studied  disregard  of  everything  but  your  own 
bias  and  wishes,  and  ignore  compression  to  100,000  words,  which 
is  the  true  writer’s  cramp.  Where  would  David  Copperfield  and 
Vanity  Fair  have  been  under  such  limitation  ? I would  not 
lose  a word  of  either — not  one  word  ! ’ 

To  his  cousin.  Miss  Seeley,  he  wrote : — 

* Vale, 

**  August,  1907. 

* My  dear  Fanny, — 

‘ I do  call  that  real  good  cousinship  to  write  me  a letter  at  full 
length  about  Alice.  That  is  what  the  human  author — and,  like  Miss 
Lavinia,1  I am  too  well  aware  that  I am  merely  human — thoroughly 
likes.  By  this  time  I am  thinking  of  the  people  in  those  two  books  as 
people  I once  knew,  but  had  no  hand  in  the  fabrication  of. 

‘ I’m  bound  to  say  I think  Joe  Vance  the  better  book  all  round.  But 
this  goes  against  the  popular  verdict — witness  the  sales  ! In  some  eight 
weeks  Alice  has  sold  some  5,000  against  Joe's  4,000  in  a twelvemonth. 

‘ It’s  very  funny  how  people  want  more  of  that  detestable  Straker  girl. 
Perhaps  they  don’t  really  know  how  odious  she  was.  I do,  you  see  ! 
But  one  or  two  criticisms  took  it  quite  en  grippe  that  I had  not  told  more 
about  her.  I assure  you,  Charles  never  really  knew  how  bad  she  was — 
fact  ! 

‘ I’m  happy  to  say  that  the  last  pages — after  “ Finis  ” — have  been 
supposed  to  be  bona  fide  by  one  critic  certainly — perhaps  more — I think 
it  the  best  thing  in  the  book. 

* Your  affect : cousin, 

‘ Wm.  De  Morgan.’ 

The  great  incentive,  however,  to  his  new  work  still  remained 
the  belief  that  it  might  enable  him  to  renew  the  old.  1 It  may 
be,’  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Vance,  ‘ that  in  the  next  few  years  my  pen 
may  supply  what  Millionaires  have  not,  and  the  Pottery  be 
vitalized  again.  That  is  the  hope  I live  in/  Only  gradually  did 
this  vision  fade ; only  slowly  did  he  understand  that  he 
had  reached  * the  last  of  life  for  which  the  first  was  made/ 
When  his  sudden  change  of  profession  was  referred  to  he 
remarked  meditatively  : ‘ Well,  my  life  has  always  been  the 

oddest  of  odd  stories,  and  this  part  of  it  is  the  oddest  story  of  all ! ' 

For  long,  indeed,  he  refused  to  credit  the  stability  of  his 
literary  success  ; and  he  regarded  the  advent  of  his  second  novel 
with  special  anxiety.  While  waiting  for  its  publication  he  wrote 
nervously  to  Heinemann  : ‘ I want  my  reviews  to  stick  in  an 
egotism-nourishing  book,  to  gratify  my  vanity  with  at  odd 
moments.  It  will  be  so  nice  to  prove,  when  the  book  has  failed, 
that  it  was  only  the  stupidity  of  the  many-headed  ! Vol.  Two 

1 Lavinia  Straker  in  Alice-for-Short,  an  adventuress  who  became  the 
first  wife  of  Charles  Heath. 


* ALICE  ’ AND  ‘ SALLY’  379 

must  always  be  a critical  one  for  an  author.  For  one  thing  it 
must  always  be  more  critically  handled  by  the  Press.  I shall 
never  again  feel  as  I am  bound  to  do  now — as  if  I were  being 
slapped  on  the  back  by  Briareus,  the  hundred-handed  ! * 

He  was  somewhat  reassured  when  his  unknown  correspon- 
dents wrote  to  him  from  America  having  re-christened  the  book 
Alice- for-Ever.  But  he  already  experienced  keenly  what  many 
an  author  feels,  that  never  again  after  his  first  book  can  he  write 
with  the  same  complete  sincerity  and  absence  of  self-conscious- 
ness which  characterized  that  unstudied  outpouring  of  the  pent- 
up  dreams  and  convictions  of  years.  Despite  the  surprise  and 
satisfaction  with  which  he  regarded  the  eulogistic  reviews,  he 
recognized  that  there  lurked  in  them  a danger,  as  also  in  the 
well-intentioned  but  persistent  criticism  of  friends.  For  all  out- 
side interference  with  inspiration  has  a tendency  to  confuse  the 
clearness  of  an  author’s  vision,  to  engender  mistrust  of  his  own 
intuition ; hence  it  is  a question  whether  the  uses  of  criticism 
counterbalance  its  abuses. 

‘ It  is  for  this  reason,’  he  remarked  once,  ‘ that  Joseph  may 
be  superior  to  his  brethren  ! A first  book  is  so  often  in  a different 
category  to  anything  which  an  author  produces  subsequently. 
Later  works  may  be  an  advance  in  construction,  as  they  will 
certainly  be  more  in  conformity  with  accepted  standards ; but 
something  will  have  gone  from  them,  never  to  be  regained,  of 
the  freshness,  the  artlessness  of  expression  which  may  be  akin 
to  genius.’  For  so  it  is  that  the  author  who  writes  with  his 
thoughts  divided  between  his  pen  and  his  critic  may  hit  the 
ephemeral  fashion  of  the  moment,  but  his  influence  will  be 
as  brief  as  the  labour  which  it  involved.  As  in  Art,  so  in  litera- 
ture, only  what  is  produced  with  the  heart’s  blood  will  take 
root  in  other  hearts. 

Later  he  remarked  : ‘ I am  quite  right  in  accounting  Joseph 
Vance  my  best  work,  and  I am  convinced  it  will  remain  so. 
The  conditions  under  which  it  was  written  can  never  recur.  I 
am  encumbered  now  not  only  with  my  rapports  with  criticism, 
but — even  more — by  the  constant  question  : ‘ Have  I,  or  have 
I not,  written  all  this  before  ? My  memory  of  what  I have 
written  is  unsound,  and  it  does  not  do  for  a writer  to  repeat 
himself.’  But  in  regard  to  this  fear  that  he  should  uncon- 
sciously duplicate  remarks  or  experiences  in  his  different  novels, 
he  once  observed  brightly  : ‘ Now  I know  why  people  will  say 
that  I repeat  myself.  The  lending  library  has  just  supplied  a 
friend  with  a copy  of  my  last  book  in  which  the  pages  1 to  40 
are  followed  by  another  1 to  40  ! Q.E.D.  ’ 

He,  however,  never  believed  in  re-writing  or  polishing  any- 
thing that  he  felt  actually  expressed  what  he  wished  to  express. 
Sincerity  was  everything ; style  was  too  often  an  affectation 


280  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

which  marred  spontaneity.  * Never  alter  anything  to  please 
anyone  else,’  he  wrote  once  emphatically  to  the  present  writer ; 

4 it  is  playing  fast  and  loose  with  Retribution  ! Nothing  is  ever 
gained  by  worrying  phraseology.  Say  just  what  you  feel,  just 
as  you  feel  it ; and  stick  to  it ! * He  even  refused  to  be  per- 
turbed when  a literal-minded  gentleman  bombarded  him  with 
correspondence  to  prove  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  a gross 
blunder.  ‘ You  who  pretend  to  write  Literature,  you  who 
are  looked  upon  as  one  of  our  great  novelists/  this  critic  com- 
plained, * you  have  actually  said  that  cows  “ appear  to  have 
time  on  their  hands  ! ” and  cows  have  no  hands  ! ' ‘I  am  greatly 
indebted  to  you/  wrote  back  De  Morgan  gravely,  ‘ for  drawing 
my  attention  to  a useful  fact  in  Natural  History,  in  which  I am 
deplorably  ignorant/ 

But  the  persistent,  and  to  him  grievous,  trouble  which  he 
encountered  was  the  necessity  for  the  compression  of  a long 
narrative  into  one  volume.  ‘ I am  quite  willing  to  admit  that 
my  method  is  all  wrong/  he  wrote  humbly  once,  when  urged  to 
write  shorter  books,  ‘ but  I am  convinced  that  nothing  will  be 
gained,  and  much  lost,  by  forcing  it  into  a channel  unnatural 
to  it/  Had  he  written  in  the  days  to  which  he  rightfully  be- 
longed, when  a three-volume  novel  was  the  vogue,  this  trouble 
would  not  have  existed  ; as  it  was,  he  was  eternally  distracted 
by  petitions  from  his  readers  that  he  would  insist  on  Mr.  Heine- 
mann  publishing  his  books  in  larger  type,  and  petitions  from  Mr. 
Heinemann  that,  to  make  this  possible,  he  should  abbreviate  his 
work  in  a manner  which  he  felt  would  confuse  the  issues  in  his 
own  mind  and  wreck  it  from  an  artistic  standpoint. 

‘ I am  strongly  of  opinion/  he  wrote  to  Heinemann,  1 that 
most  modern  literature  would  gain  by  judicious  condensation 
and  expansion . But  my  experience  is  that  the  latter  is  the  best 
remedy  for  dragging.  Nothing  is  so  good  as  judicious  insertion  ! 
If  only  that  injudicious  blue  pencil  could  draw  together  and  heal 
up  the  gap  it  leaves  so  as  not  to  upset  the  apple-cart  in  the  next 
Chapter,  no  one  would  welcome  it  more  than  I.  But  the  author 
has  to  re-read  and  correct  all  the  rest  of  his  book  at  every  ex- 
cision ; and  nobody  else  can  ever  read  his  MS.  with  an  impartial 
eye  to  help  him,  because  the  critic  sees  the  pencil-mark  and  is 
biased/ 

On  one  occasion  Heinemann  sent  a manuscript  back  to  him 
with  an  earnest  petition  that  he  would  condense  it.  De  Morgan 
set  to  work  conscientiously  to  comply  with  this  request ; but 
as  he  re-read  the  story,  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  lacked  little 
touches  here  and  there  to  perfect  it,  and  he  worked  away  happily 
adding  these  in  till  he  found  that,  instead  of  shortening  the  book, 
he  had  increased  the  original  length  by  four  hundred  pages  with 
material  which  now  seemed  too  essential  to  be  omitted.  ‘ But 


* ALICE  ’ AND *  * SALLY  * 281 

after  all/  he  wrote  soothingly  to  Heinemann,  * try  to  feel  it’s 
only  like  your  publishing  two  books  at  once  ! ' 

Another  time,  when  Mr.  Lawrence  likewise  urged  the  advis- 
ability of  compression,  De  Morgan  pointed  out  that  it  would  be 
infinitely  less  trouble  to  himself  to  start  afresh  and  write  an 
entirely  new  book,  than  to  maul  the  completed  manuscript.  ‘ I 
have  usually  found/  he  complained,  ‘ that  three  lines  taken  out 
in  one  place  have  let  me  in  for  six  inserted  elsewhere  to  make  a 
passage  intelligible  1 ; and  he  adds  : — 

‘ It  seems  to  me  that  my  books  are  giving  a deal  of  trouble  ! But 
this  Solomon  is  not  only  good-tempered — but  really  grateful  for  plain, 
straightforward  criticism.  It  can’t  be  too  clear  and  direct  because  then 
it  franks  him  in  directness  of  yea  and  nay. 

‘ As  to  mere  cutting  out  of  paragraphs,  all  I can  say  is,  try  one  ! Don’t 
blue-pencil  the  place  and  leave  the  author  to  heal  the  gap  up — have  the 
two  ends  re-typed  in  context,  with  proper  commas  and  things. 

‘ I let  a friend  loose  once  on  Chapter  I of  Joe  Vance  with  a blue  pencil, 
and  asked  for  the  phrases  to  be  read  aloud  as  amended — I declined  to 
help — and  no  conclusion  was  come  to  ! 

‘ I could  show  you  four  pages  of  Alice  J or -Short  that  wavered  under 
the  blue-pencil  because  they  “ dragged,”  and  were  afterwards  reprinted 
en  bloc  with  special  eulogy  in  Public  Opinion  ! Shows  how  hard  it  is  for 
an  author  to  judge. 

‘ But  I can’t  decline  to  help  this  time,  or  be  the  least  cantankerous — 
only  I must  be  convinced — I can’t  cut  out  anything  I think  juicy.  Much 
sooner  start  on  a new  one  ! ’ 1 

‘ I have  always  been  greatly  struck  by  the  essayist  in  De 

1 To  readers  of  Alice-for-Short  it  may  be  of  interest  to  know  exactly 
what  he  eliminated  in  that  novel.  To  Heinemann  he  wrote  : — 

‘ I have  done  my  best  with  Alice-for-Short.  It  is  most  difficult  to  make 
any  substantial  reduction  in  bulk  without  sacrificing  some  feature  in  the 
story.  No  doubt  it  would  be  possible  to  tell  the  same  tale  without  the 
Ghosts  being  Alice’s  ancestors,  or  to  introduce  Margaret  and  Dr.  Johnson 
as  a married  couple  without  saying  how  they  became  so.  I dare  say  fifty 
pages  might  be  won  by  either  of  these  expedients  and  three  months  re- 
casting. But  I don’t  think  either  comes  into  practical  politics. 

‘ What  I have  actually  sacrificed  is  as  follows  : 

* (1)  The  chapter  at  the  end.  Its  substance,  cut  down,  has  been  added 
to  Chapter  23,  Vol.  2. 

* (2)  The  bulk  of  the  legal  discussion,  retaining  little  beyond  the  will. 

* (3)  All  I could  spare  of  the  Heath  household’s  meal-times,  and  the 
opposition  of  his  relatives  to  Charles’s  marriage. 

* (4)  Much  psychical  Research,  and  3,000  or  4,000  words  of  miscel- 
laneous excision. 

* With  regard  to  what  I have  added  it  amounts  to,  say,  twenty  pages 
of  Joseph  Vance  print,  and  fills  out  a grievous  hiatus  in  the  story.  On 
reading  straight  through  the  whole  aloud  to  my  wife,  both  of  us  were 
disgusted  at  the  way  Charles’s  meeting  with  Alice  after  the  small-pox  was 
ignored.  The  tale  jumped  on  from  the  picnic  at  Shellacombe  to  the 
Bedlam  epoch  leaving  poor  Alice  in  the  hospital.  It  was  too  unkind. 
However,  I have  made  it  all  warm  and  comfortable  now  by  adding  the 
short  chapter  which  is  Chapter  XXXIV  of  one  Vol.  It  would  not  do  to 
omit  it.  The  discontinuity  was  too  painful.’ 


282  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

Morgan's  novels,'  wrote  Mr.  Shaw  Sparrow.  ‘ Narrative  is  con- 
stantly being  delayed  by  the  essayist,  who  is  a chatty,  charming, 
humorous  and  witty  observer,  with  a marvellous  eye  for  the 
detail  that  counts.  Critics  when  impatient  with  the  length  of 
his  books  invariably  forget  the  essayist,  as  though  story-writing 
alone  interested  them.  If  the  essays  in  De  Morgan  were  col- 
lected I think  that  Charles  Lamb  would  have  a rival.' 

The  hackneyed  criticism  that  he  was  too  prolix  was,  however, 
occasionally  met  by  De  Morgan  with  a gentle  effrontery.  ‘ Well,’ 
he  observed,  after  reading  a passage  to  this  effect,  ‘ I stopped 
reading  for  forty  years,  and  now  that  I have  taken  to  writing, 
I find  other  people’s  books  so  long  ! ’ 

When  Heinemann  urged  him  to  write  some  personal  reminis- 
cences in  order  to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  his  insatiable  readers, 
he  replied  : ‘ The  matter  is  settled  for  me  by  the  fact  that  my 
undertakings  have  overtaken  me,  and  I mustn't  add  to  them  ; 
but  I hope  I shall  not  seem  an  intransigeant  person  if  I say  at 
once  Reminiscences  would  be  out  of  the  question.  Too  many 
people  are  still  living — I should  be  in  hot  water  in  no  time — and 
I’m  not  cut  out  for  that  sort  of  work.  I find  I live  in  a cold 
perspiration  as  it  is  whenever  I come  to  London.  And  whatever 
chance  there  is  of  screwing  another  Joe  or  Alice  out  of  this 
fatigued  and  disordered  brain  would  be  gone  for  good  ! My 
proper  business  is  to  use  my  residuum  of  invention  on  what  my 
friends  who  have  read  Joe  and  Alice  are  asking  for — viz.,  more 
of  the  same  sort.  There  won't  be  a-many  years  at  the  most 
to  employ  it  on.' 

* I have  in  vain  besought  my  reviewers,’  he  wrote  on  another 
occasion,  * to  invent  whatever  they  like  about  me,  but  not  to 
bother  me  with  data.  Winged  words  of  this  sort  need  not  have 
the  solemnity  of  law  documents.  What  earthly  use  is  a sub- 
stratum of  fact  ? It's  of  no  use,  for  instance,  my  correcting  the 
story  that  the  MS.  of  Joseph  Vance  was  typed  after  a publisher 
rejected  it,  and  that  another  publisher  took  it  in  consequence  of 
my  typist  weeping  over  it ! In  point  of  fact,  I never  trust  a 
MS.  out  of  my  hand  till  it  exists  in  duplicate.'  To  a friend  who 
succeeded  in  interviewing  him,  he  wrote  : — 

‘ I know  you  will  excuse  my  saying  candidly  that  I object  unappeasedly 
to  the  interview  form  ? . . . However,  I have  no  objection  to  the  publica- 
tion of  what  you  have  written  if  it  is  distinctly  understood  not  to  contain 
a single  correction  of  my  own  writing.  ...  I understand  the  rule  of  the 
game  in  Press-notices  of  this  sort  to  be  that  they  need  be  accurate  only 
in  an  Impressionist  sense.  This  is  rather  like  Mrs.  Wilfer’s  celebrated 
reservation.  When  she  used  the  word  attractive  she  did  it  “ with  this 
reservation,  that  I meant  it  in  no  sense  whatever.” 

As  he  drifted  into  a settled  routine  of  work,  he  kept  to  the 
hours  which,  throughout  his  life,  he  had  been  used  to  devote 
to  art.  He  thus  wrote  from  dawn  to  dusk,  and  sometimes 


* ALICE  ' AND  ‘SALLY' 


283 

occasionally  in  the  evening.  ‘ I am  very  stay-at-home-ative  ! ' 
he  explained  in  consequence.  His  own  impression  was  that  he 
wrote  very  slowly ; but,  judging  by  the  result,  this  could  not 
have  been  the  case.  Interruptions  never  fretted  him.  When 
these  occurred,  however  inopportunely,  he  laid  his  pen  aside 
with  unruffled  amiability,  and  later  resumed  the  broken  train  of 
thought  without  effort.  ‘ I find  that  the  mere  holding  of  a pen 
makes  me  think/  he  said.  ‘ The  pen  even  seems  to  have  some 
consciousness  of  its  own  ! It  can  certainly  begin  the  work.  Then 
I forget  all  about  it,  and  go  on  wheresoever  thought  or  the  char- 
acters lead  me.  I think  I work  best  in  Florence,  where  it  is 
always  quiet,  and  where  there  is  something  stimulating  in  the 
air.  Yet  weather  does  not  affect  me,  as  all  my  work  is  indoors.’ 
His  handwriting  was  very  legible  and  his  manuscripts,  in  con- 
sonance with  his  disbelief  in  revision,  show  few  corrections,  save, 
here  and  there,  excisions  of  entire  paragraphs. 

Mr.  Bram  Stoker,  after  a visit  to  the  Vale,  relates,  ‘ Mr.  De 
Morgan  is  extremely  reticent — indeed  almost  shy — in  speakmg 
of  himself  or  his  work.  . . . He  is  the  most  modest  of  men.  It 
was  only  in  answer  to  direct  queries  that  he  would  unfold  any- 
thing of  himself  or  his  memories.  But  he  is  a most  kindly  and 
genial  man,  of  a very  sweet  and  sympathetic  nature — as  indeed 
any  reader  of  that  work  can  discern.  As  we  chatted  in  his  little 
study  looking  out  into  the  garden — large  for  a house  so  near  the 
heart  of  London — his  natural  diffidence  wore  away  and  he 
revealed  himself.  New  light  came  into  his  mind  from  old 
memories,  illuminating  thoughts  expressed  themselves  in  an 
atmosphere  of  colour — natural  to  a man  who  had  spent  some 
forty  years  as  a worker  in  picturesque  designing  and  manufac- 
ture. 

‘ “ I had  a great  struggle,”  De  Morgan  explained,  " to  get  Joseph 
Vance  coherent  at  the  end.  I really  thought  at  one  time  that 
I had  got  into  a muddle  from  which  there  could  be  no  extrica- 
tion. Happily  that  was  not  so  with  Alice-for -Short.  In  that 
case  all  went  through  very  easily.”  ’ 

‘ I suppose/  Mr.  Stoker  suggested,  ‘ that  the  power  of  plot- 
making develops  with  exercise  and  experience  ? ’ 

He  smiled  as  he  replied,  ‘ That  is  so — as  far  as  my  experience 
carries  me.  In  my  first  book  that  branch  of  the  art  of  novel- 
writing was  wrought  by  the  sweat  of  my  brow.  I had  to  think 
of  everything,  foresee  everything — as  far  as  I could.  But  even 
then  there  were  a sad  lot  of  loose  ends  and  ragged  edges  ; all 
of  which  had  to  be  carefully  laboured  over  till  some  sort  of  unity 
of  idea  of  the  whole  thing  was  achieved,  in  so  far  as  it  was  in  me 
to  do  it.  When  I began  Alice-for -Short  I found  the  value  of  all 
this  labour.  Things  began  somehow  to  settle  themselves,  and 
to  fall  into  line  in  a natural  way.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the 


284  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

mechanical  power  of  one's  mind  was  getting  adjusted  to  its  new 
work.  After  all,  a great  deal  of  this  part  of  the  work  is  scientific 
— logic  based  on  mathematics.  And  a good  deal  of  my  early 
life  was  spent  in  these  studies.  I inherited  perhaps  some  of  the 
faculty,  or  at  least  I should  have,  for  I come  from  a mathematical 
and  logical  family.' 

Mr.  Bram  Stoker  proceeded  to  question  him  about  his  char- 
acter-creation. ‘ Do  your  characters  come  from  your  brain  fully 
fledged,  like  Minerva,  or  do  they  grow  from  small  beginnings 
and  become  more  and  more  real  as  the  story  progresses  ? ' 

‘ The  latter  altogether.  So  far  as  I can  remember — for  it  is 
hard  to  recollect  the  exact  beginnings  of  characters — the  pro- 
cess is  a sort  of  nebulous  idea  with  a concrete  heart  somewhere 
in  the  midst.  A heart  which  can  from  the  first  illuminate  in 
some  degree,  and  which  can  beat  in  time,  and  grow  more  and 
more  and  more  vital  till  at  the  last  it  emerges  from  the  mist. 
And  then,  strangely  enough,  you  are  not  astonished  when  you 
find  that  the  creature  which  has  newly  declared  itself  is  a friend 
of  your  lifetime — of  your  dreams.  When  this  point  is  reached 
the  characters  often  act,  and  even  speak,  for  themselves.  At 
times  it  seems  as  if  one  can  almost  hear  their  very  words.' 

‘ Do  they  ever,’  Mr.  Stoker  asked,  ‘ get  away  from  you  at 
this  stage  ; do  they  ever  take,  so  to  speak,  the  bit  in  their  teeth 
and  bolt  ? ' 

‘ I wouldn't  undertake  to  say  that  they  don't ; and  I must 
say  that  I don’t  object  when  they  do.  For  this  often  leads  to 
a new  line  of  thought.  It  seems  to  me  often  that  it  is  such 
divergencies  that  make  for  the  freshness  of  a story.  After  all, 
if  the  characters  are  true  to  nature,  with  just  that  soup^on  of 
individuality — even  if  it  is  eccentric — which  makes  people  in- 
teresting in  real  life,  such  can  have  a charm  of  their  own  in 
literature.  And  if  these  imaginary  characters  have  fictional  life 
why  should  they  not  use  it  fictionally — in  their  own  way.  We 
talk  now  and  again  of  fictional  characters  as  “ living.”  Surely 
it  is  this  quality,  if  any,  which  makes  them  so.' 

Thus,  as  De  Morgan  wrote,  he  did  not  attempt  to  create  a 
plot,  nor  had  he  any  idea  when  he  was  writing  one  page  what 
the  next  would  be.  ‘ My  ideas  of  what  will  happen,’  he  ex- 
plained, ‘ are  only  distinct  by  accident,  occasionally.’  He 
believed  absolutely  in  the  reality  of  his  puppets,  and  he  waited 
with  a complete  sense  of  impotence  to  see  what  they  would  do 
next.  ' How  is  the  story  going  ? ’ his  wife  would  ask  him  when 
he  came  down  to  luncheon.  ‘ I am  rather  distressed,  I am  so 
afraid  they  are  going  to  quarrel,'  he  would  answer  sometimes  ; 
and  later  in  the  day  when  she  asked  again,  he  would  perhaps 
reply  happily,  ‘ After  all,  I don’t  know  if  they  will  come  to  a 
quarrel— I must  wait  to  see  what  they  will  do.’  Only  rarely  did 


b 


Dish,  saucer-shaped,  painted  in  ruby  and  yellow  lustre  with  an  antelope  standing 
in  front  of  an  apple  tree ; below  are  two  fishes. 

Diameter  14%  inches. 

[At  the  Vict07'ia  & Albert  Museum,  London 


•ALICE’  AND  ‘SALLY’ 


28* 

he  become  worried  when  the  plot  would  not  reveal  itself.  For 
instance,  when  he  was  writing  Alice-for-Short,  he  was  asked  one 
day  how  he  was  getting  on.  ‘Not  at  all,*  he  responded  plain- 
tively, ‘ the  heroine  has  been  hanging  over  a precipice  for  three 
days,  and  I don’t  know  what  on  earth  she  will  decide  to  do  next ! * 

In  all  matters  he  followed  the  trend  of  his  inspiration  blindly, 
and  only  subsequently  tried  to  ascertain  if  his  fiction  was  in 
accordance  with  fact.  Such  investigation  appealed  to  his  innate 
love  of  analysis,  and  doctors,  lawyers,  scientists  were,  in  turn, 
eagerly  consulted  by  him  on  technical  points,  with  the  result 
that  he  invariably  proved  the  accuracy  of  what  he  had  described 
in  complete  ignorance.  For  instance,  having  related  how  Jane 
Verrinder,  on  resuming  consciousness,  took  up  the  threads  of  life 
from  the  precise  juncture  at  which  she  had  laid  them  down — 
even  to  continuing  the  remarks  which  she  had  been  about  to 
make  when  her  accident  occurred — he  was  much  interested  in 
the  following  letter  from  a famous  authority  on  lunacy : — 

Sir  James  Crichton- Browne,  M.D.,  F.R.S.,  to  William  De  Morgan. 

* Dumfries,  N.B. 

* Prolonged  trance  and  subliminal  periods  of  existence  have  often 
been  employed  in  fiction,  generally,  I think,  in  a way  that  does  not  com- 
mend itself  to  the  medical  mind.  The  truth  is,  such  matter  is  often  more 
wonderful  than  anything  that  imagination  has  conceived.  Had  I time 
I could  send  you  some  curious  cases  of  trance  dug  out  of  old  medical  and 
surgical  literature.  I suppose  you  have  heard  of  Astley  Cooper’s  case  in 
which  a naval  officer  who  suffered  a depression  of  the  skull  from  a grape- 
shot  in  an  action  in  the  Mediterranean  at  the  moment  when  he  was  issuing 
an  order  remained  totally  unconscious  for  many  months,  in  which  state 
he  was  brought  home,  and  who,|when  operated  on  in  London  and  the 
depressed  bone  being  raised,  completed  the  order  he  had  been  uttering 
when  he  was  struck  down  many  months  before.  He  took  up  his  con- 
scious life  at  the  exact  moment  when  it  had  been  interrupted. 

* I remember  making  an  interesting  visit  to  Bethlem  many  years 
ago  with  the  late  Miss  Lungard,  an  actress  of  great  ability,  to  enable  her 
to  study  a particular  form  of  insanity,  Melancholia,  which  she  portrayed 
in  Called  Back,  a successful  play  founded  on  a successful  novel.  The 
public  fancied  it  was  unnatural,  but  it  was  really  a wonderful  study  of  a 
special  form  of  mental  aberration  ! 5 

In  short,  while  writing,  De  Morgan  was  like  a man  groping 
in  the  dark  and  trying  to  discover  how  people  of  whose  existence 
he  had  become  aware  were  about  to  act,  till,  slowly  but  surely, 
the  knowledge  came  to  him.  One  curious  feature  of  his  novels, 
however,  gradually  impressed  him  as  remarkable.  After  he  had 
written  some  incident  which  he  believed  to  be  entirely  fictitious 
— possibly  even  too  fantastic  for  credence — not  only  did  he  dis- 
cover that  it  might  have  happened,  but  in  several  instances  he 
discovered  that  it  had  happened,  or  a parallel  to  it  in  real  life 
occurred  shortly  after  he  had  told  his  story.  It  was  as  though 
he  had  set  himself  up  as  a brain  centre  to  which  had  gravitated 


286  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

facts  whereof  he  could  have  had  no  actual  knowledge  or  pre- 
monition. 

Passing  over  the  chance  which  might  easily  be  accounted  for 
of  his  having  chosen  the  name  of  a living  author  for  his  first 
book,  it  will  be  remembered  how  pathetically  he  described  the 
incident  just  referred  to  in  Alice-) or -Short  when  Mr.  Verrinder 
for  half  a century  lived  within  sight  of  the  madhouse  where  his 
young  bride  had  been  incarcerated.  This  romance  was  pure  fiction 
to  De  Morgan  when  he  wrote  it,  yet  he  afterwards  discovered 
that  the  tragic  story  had  had  an  actual  counterpart  in  real  life, 
in  a bygone  generation,  when  a man  took  lodgings  adjacent  to 
an  asylum,  and  lived  and  died  waiting  vainly  for  the  return  to 
sanity  of  the  wife  who  was  doomed  to  a living  death  within  its  walls. 

Again,  in  connexion  with  his  third  novel,  published  in  1908, 
several  curious  coincidences  occurred  ; but  it  is  first  necessary 
to  glance  at  the  origin  and  the  outline  of  that  plot. 

‘ I had  written  a tale,’  De  Morgan  said,  ‘ which  I liked  and 
my  wife  didn’t ; and  she  said  to  me,  “ Why  can’t  you  write  a 
story  with  an  ordinary  beginning  ? ” I said,  “ What  sort  ? ” 
She  said,  “ Well,  for  instance,  ‘ It  was  his  last  tuppence  and  he 
spent  it  in  the  tuppenny  tube  / ’ ” Said  I,  “ An  admirable  be- 
ginning ! ” I put  my  story  in  hand  straight  away,  and  began 
writing  what  is  now  Chapter  II  of  the  book — Chapter  I was 
written  long  after  to  square  it  all  up  ! ’ 

Solely  from  the  chance  suggestion  of  that  sentence,  De 
Morgan  evolved  the  plot  of  Somehow  Good — or,  as  his  American 
readers  called  it,  * Somehow  awfully  Good  ’ : a tale  which,  he 
stated,  * was  written  and  even  the  typescript  completed  before 
1905/  It  was  a story  which,  dealt  with  less  delicately  and 
deftly  than  he  handled  it,  could  have  been  repellent.  1 One  can 
imagine — if  given  to  nightmares,’  remarks  a critic,  * what  the 
modern  realist,  who  is  forbidden  to  mention  the  scent  of  violets 
so  long  as  there  are  garbage  cans  to  enjoy,  would  have  made 
of  it.’ 

A young  girl,  Rosalind,  going  out  to  India  to  be  married,  falls 
a victim  to  a man  who  abuses  the  hospitality  and  guardianship 
that  had  been  offered  to  her  en  route  by  his  wife.  In  consequence, 
she  and  her  young  husband  * Gerry  ’ eventually  separate  before 
the  birth  of  the  child  of  whom  he  is  not  the  father ; and  for 
years  neither  knows  what  has  become  of  the  other.  Then,  by  a 
freak  of  fate,  Gerry,  journeying  in  England,  all  unwittingly  meets 
Rosalind’s  daughter,  Sally,  now  grown  up  into  a lively,  beautiful 
damsel ; and,  travelling  in  the  same  compartment  with  her  in 
the  underground,  he  has  an  accident  for  which  she  is  indirectly 
responsible.  Stooping  to  pick  up  a half-crown  she  had  dropped, 
he  encounters  a live  wire,  and,  partially  electrocuted,  loses  hia 
memory.  Sally  impulsively  makes  herself  responsible  for  the 


• ALICE  ' AND  ‘SALLY' 


287 

unfortunate  stranger ; and  when  her  mother,  in  that  unknown 
man  ‘ Fenwick/  recognizes  the  husband  of  her  youth  thus 
strangely  restored  to  her,  she  silently  acquiesces  in  Sally’s 
erratic  action. 

Two  years  later  Rosalind  and  Gerry  re-marry,  she  with  full 
cognizance  of  the  past,  he  unaware  of  it,  owing  to  continued  loss 
of  memory.  The  return  of  that  memory  bit  by  bit,  the  final 
shock  of  the  complete  realization  of  the  past,  and  his  rescue 
by  Sally  from  the  sea  into  which  he  had  fallen  half-dazed,  con- 
stitute an  enthralling  story,  enhanced  by  many  side-issues — 
Sally’s  love-affair  with  ‘ Dr.  Prosy,’  her  friend  Tishy’s  elopement 
with  the  young  haberdasher  from  Cattley’s,  the  Indian  Colonels 
who  had  known  Rosalind  in  her  youth,  and  the  terrible  mother 
of  Dr.  Prosy  and  prospective  mother-in-law  of  Sally  whom  De 
Morgan  feelingly  describes  as  a ‘ goosling  Goody  ’ or  an  ‘ Octo- 
pus/ Moreover,  throughout  the  whole,  one  never  misses  the 
motif  of  the  story — how  ‘ Somehow,  good  will  be  the  final  goal 
of  ill  ’ ; how  Rosalind,  despite  that  nightmare  in  the  past,  is  a 
woman  pure  at  heart,  tender  and  true,  and  how,  strange  thought ! 
beautiful,  laughing  Sally  has  sprung  into  being  out  of  that  bygone 
horror — like  a lovely  flower  born  from  a dung-hill ! 

‘ Where  would  those  eyes  be,  conspirators  with  the  lids  above  them 
and  the  merry  fluctuations  of  the  brows  ; where  would  those  lips  be,  from 
which  the  laughter  never  quite  vanished,  even  as  the  ripple  of  the  ocean’s 
edge  tries  how  small  it  can  get,  but  never  dies  outright ; where  the  great 
coils  of  black  hair  that  would  not  go  inside  any  ordinary  oilskin  swimming- 
cap  ; where  the  incorrigible  impertinence  and  flippancy  we  never  liked 
to  miss  a word  of  ; where,  in  short,  would  Sally  be  if  she  had  never  emerged 
from  that  black  shadow  in  the  past  ? 

‘ Easy  enough  to  say,  had  she  not  done  so,  something  else  quite  as 
good  might  have  been.  Very  likely.  How  can  we  limit  the  possible  to 
the  conditional — prseter-pluperfect  tense  ? But  then,  you  see,  it  wouldn’t 
have  been  Sally  ! That’s  the  point.’ 

De  Morgan  himself  used  to  declare  that  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  ‘ Sallykins,’  and  that  he  was  not  responsible  for  her  often 
reprehensible  conduct.  ‘ She  simply  goes  her  own  way  and  does 
whatever  she  likes  with  me  ! ' He  had  at  first  intended  to  call 
the  story  * The  Grooves  of  Time  ’ ; later  he  decided  to  name  it 
‘ His  Horrible  Baby/  ‘ The  phrase/  he  says,  ‘ comes  from 
Chapter  43,  after  Fenwick’s  question  to  his  wife,  “ What  became 
of  the  baby  ? ” My  wife  thinks  the  title  quite  an  inspiration 
on  its  merits.  I myself  think  it  gists  the  novel  most  concisely. 
But  also  it  drags  the  unpleasant  side  into  the  light.  . . / 

Nevertheless  this  name  was  afterwards  abandoned  for  the 
reason  indicated ; and  De  Morgan  once  remarked  that  the 
passage  in  his  three  novels  which  he  would  like  to  be  remembered 
by  was  that  following  Rosalind’s  recognition  by  her  long-lost 
husband.  When  Professor  Phelps  concluded  his  criticism  of 


288 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


De  Morgan’s  writing  with  a quotation  from  that  episode,  De 
Morgan  wrote  to  him  : * Do  you  know,  you  have  wound  up  youi 
article  with  the  passage  I myself  look  upon  as  doing  me  more 
credit  than  almost  anything  else  in  all  the  books  ! ’ Both  critic 
and  criticized  understood  that  in  the  simplicity  with  which  that 
crucial  situation  is  treated  lies  its  strength.  The  climax  towards 
which  all  the  story  had  been  tending  is  dismissed  in  a few  words 
with  a power  in  their  reticence  which  pages  of  laboured  descrip- 
tion would  have  lacked.  * What  became  of  the  baby  ? ...  The 
baby — his  baby — his  horrible  baby  ! ’ ' Gerry  darling  ! Gerry 

dearest ! do  think  ! ’ 

On  the  publication  of  the  book  De  Morgan  wrote  to  Heine- 
mann  with  delight  both  over  its  reception  and  its  tangible 
result : — 

‘ Yours  is  a very  gratifying  letter  indeed — I had  no  idea  I was  so 
wealthy  ! However  I,  of  course,  don’t  really  know  what  the  circulation 
of  either  book  has  been,  either  in  England  or  America.  It  is  all  curiously 
and  surprisingly  satisfactory  ! 

‘ The  reviews  are  quite  taking  me  aback.  The  Pall  Mall  I thought  a 
particularly  intelligent  one.  I see  with  a good  deal  of  pleasure  that  the 
unpleasant  part  of  the  story  takes  its  proper  place  as  a mere  essential  to 
the  plot.  A good  many  readers  will  remain  in  the  dark  about  it.’ 

The  only  adverse  criticism,  however,  which  the  Press  seemed 
at  first  inclined  to  formulate  was  that  the  story  was  lacking  in 
plausibility  since  the  electrocuting  incident  and  its  after-effects, 
on  which  the  whole  plot  hinged,  could  not  possibly  have  hap- 
pened ; indeed  controversy  on  this  point  was  already  becoming 
heated,  when,  within  a fortnight  of  the  publication  of  the  book, 
Mr.  Heinemann  sent  De  Morgan  a newspaper  cutting  describing 
an  exactly  similar  accident  which  had  just  occurred,  with  a 
similar  result,  in  so  far  as  loss  of  memory  was  involved.  ‘ I 
think  Somehow  Good  should  prove  the  most  in-the-nick  book 
that  ever  was  published,’  De  Morgan  replied.  ‘Yet  I myself, 
when  I wrote  about  the  electrocuting  incident,  believed  it  to  be 
impossible  ! ’ 

This  coincidence  was  soon  after  followed  by  another.  A 
letter  came  to  De  Morgan  from  a heart-broken  mother  asking 
him  if  his  story  had  been  founded  on  the  disappearance  of  her 
son.  A handsome  youth,  healthy  and  happy,  the  latter  had 
mysteriously  vanished  beyond  all  trace,  in  circumstances  strangely 
similar  to  those  under  which  Fenwick  was  lost  to  view — after 
travelling  by  train  with  only  a few  shillings  in  his  pocket — his 
disappearance  being  explicable  only  on  the  same  grounds — a loss 
of  memory. 

A further  and  somewhat  different  illustration  of  De  Morgan’s 
unconscious  veracity  of  description  may  also  be  cited  here, 
although  referred  to  in  a letter  belonging  to  a later  date.  His 
readers  will  remember  how  mischievous  Sally — the  ‘ Mer-pussy ' 


•ALICE'  AND  ‘ SALLY 


289 

as  he  quaintly  called  her  in  view  of  her  prowess  in  swimming — 
nearly  lost  her  life  when  saving  that  of  Fenwick,  and  how,  all  too 
graphically,  were  described  the  agonizing  hours  during  which  her 
fate  hung  in  suspense  and  she — Sally  of  the  saucy  speech,  the 
pearly  teeth,  the  brilliant,  mocking  eyes — lay  dead  to  love  and 
laughter,  while  artificial  respiration  was  tried  in  vain. 

Charles  Moores  to  William  De  Morgan. 

* (Pickens,  Moores,  Davidson  & Pickens, 
* Lemcke  Building,  Indianapolis), 

* April  5,  1914. 

9 Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan, — 

* It  cannot  interest  you  deeply  to  learn  what  a young  thing  of  fifty 
odd  summers  thinks  of  your  stories,  but  you  will  have  to  get  a letter  of 
appreciation  from  me,  for,  ever  since  Joseph  Vance  came  out,  I have  been 
meaning  to  write  it.  I am  just  old  enough  to  remember  when  people 
talked  of  Dickens’s  latest  and  waited  eagerly  for  the  next.  And  ever 
since  the  early  'eighties  when  I snatched  the  first  copy  of  each  new  book  by 
R.  L.  S.  and  read  it  first,  I have  had  the  joy  and  disappointment  of  watching 
for  the  next  big  thing  that  was  to  be  written.  I can  re-read  Joseph  Vance 
with  thorough  enjoyment.  But  oh,  for  the  joy  of  reading  it  for  the  first 
time  ! It  makes  me  think  of  the  sonnet  on  Chapman’s  Homer  and  “ stout 
Cortez”  standing  upon  his  impossible  peak  in  Darien.  Alice-for-Short 
and  Somehow  Good  brought  some  of  that  same  joy.  And  now,  When 
Ghost  Meets  Ghost , in  the  same  delicate,  delicious  vein  as  Joseph  Vance, 
simply  impels  me  to  write  and  tell  you  about  it.  It  is  so  bravely  long, 
too.  Other  writers  are  afraid  to  write  so  long  a story.  Thank  Heaven 
you  are  not ! I wish  it  were  twice  as  big. 

‘ As  I have  read  each  of  your  stories  and  found  every  time — isn’t  it 
so  with  every  one  of  them  ? — the  terrible  reality  with  which  your  idea  of 
drowning  is  brought  in,  I have  wondered  what  personal  experience  must 
have  given  the  origin  to  it.  Having  gone  through  the  experience  in  my 
own  boyhood  I feel  that  you  could  not  have  made  it  so  real,  ana  therefore 
so  dreadful,  unless  you  had  shut  your  own  eyes  upon  the  surrounding 
waters  for  what  seemed  to  be  the  last  time  and  gone  on  into  unconsciousness. 
This,  of  course,  is  unimportant  beside  the  greater  things  you  have  done, 
but  it  is  one  of  many  proofs  that  your  pictures  of  life  are  the  real  thing. 
To  have  known  such  sweetness  as  Lossie  and  Gwen  and  Sally,  and  to  have 
understood  the  heart  of  a little  child,  and  to  have  given  this  to  the  rest  of 
us  is  to  have  really  lived.  I love  your  people  and  wish  I knew  you.  The 
world  will  be  happier  for  many  a year  because  of  what  you  have  given  it. 
Will  you  pardon  my  assurance  in  thus  thanking  you  for  my  share  in  the 
gift  ? 

‘ Sincerely  yours, 

‘ Charles  W.  Moores.’ 

William  De  Morgan  to  Charles  W.  Moores. 

‘ Viale  Milton  N.  31, 

‘ Florence, 

' Italy, 

' 19/4/14- 

‘ Dear  Mr.  Moores,— 

‘ Thank  you  very  much  for  your  letter.  I cannot  tell  you  how 
much  pleasure  it  is  to  me  to  know  that  my  books  are  giving  real  satisfac- 
tion. It  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  comes  back  to  one  to  solace  a sleepless 
night,  wherefrom  I sometimes  suffer — but  happily  seldom. 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


290 

* Your  confirmation  of  my  references  to  drowning  is  particularly 
interesting,  because  all  I say  on  the  subject  is  theory.  I have  never  been 
nearer  drowning  than  having  to  hold  my  breath  longer  than  I expected 
on  coming  up  from  a deep  dive.  But  the  terrible  misgiving  that  I should 
not  get  to  the  top  in  time  was  quite  enough.  That  my  views  should  strike 
anyone  who  had  gone  through  it  as  true  reminds  me  of  a letter  I once 
had  from  a gentleman  who  had  all  but  gone  off  a precipice  into  the  sea 
like  Alice-jor-Short  and  her  friend  the  doctor,  and  had  been  saved  in  the 
same  way.  He  wanted  to  know  when  and  where  I had  been  in  a like  pickle 
to  know  so  much  about  it.  I ascribe  my  success  in  dealing  with  these  (to 
me)  unknown  terrors  to  a fine  rich  constitutional  cowardice.  It  is  the 
same  faculty  that  makes  me  image  tjie  passage  of  a motor-car  over  the 
body  of  any  of  my  family  who  is  half  an  hour  late.  I could  do  without 
a good  deal  of  this  faculty,  as  far  as  comfort  goes,  but  I don’t  think  my 
books  would  benefit. 

* I hope  I may  manage  yet  one  more  before  I join  those  among  whom 
many  will  be  found  whose  resuscitation  from  drowning  failed,  some  of 
whom  will,  I hope,  remember  enough  about  it  to  confirm  (or  contradict) 
my  text  further.  And  also  that  you  may  live  to  read  it. 

* Thanks  again — from, 

‘ Yours  very  truly, 

4 Wm.  De  Morgan.* 

Shortly  after  the  publication  of  Somehow  Good , De  Morgan 
found  himself  involved  in  controversy  with  various  ardent 
Roman  Catholics  who  objected  to  certain  inaccuracies  in  his 
description  of  the  celebration  of  the  Mass.  The  passage  com- 
plained of  describes  how  Fenwick,  still  suffering  from  loss  of 
memory,  goes  with  Rosalind  on  their  honeymoon  into  Rheims 
Cathedral  and  is  present  at  what  he  terms  the  Messe  des  paresseux 
‘ because  the  lazy  people  don't  come  to  Mass  till  ten.’ 

4 It  was  easy  to  put  it  all  away  and  forget  it  in  the  hush  and  gloom  of 
the  great  church,  filled  with  the  strange  intonation  from  Heaven-knows- 
where — some  side-chapel  unseen — of  a Psalm  it  would  have  puzzled 
David  to  be  told  was  his,  and  a scented  vapour  Solomon  would  have 
known  at  once  ; for  neither  myrrh  nor  frankincense  have  changed  one 
whit  since  his  day.  It  was  easy  enough  so  long  as  both  sat  listening  to 
Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo,  et  in  terra  pax.  Carried  new.  con.  by  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  Creeds.  But  when  the  little  bobs  and  tokens  and  skirt 
adjustments  of  the  fat  priest  and  his  handsome  abettor  (a  young  fellow 
some  girl  might  have  been  the  wife  of,  with  advantage  to  both)  came  to  a 
pause,  and  the  congregation  were  to  be  taken  into  confidence,  how  came 
Gerry  to  know  beforehand  what  the  fat  one  was  going  to  say,  with  that 
stupendous  voice  of  his  ? 

4 4 4 Hoc  est  corpus  meum,  et  hie  est  calix  sanguinis  mei.  We  all  kneel, 
I think.”  Thus  the  bridegroom  under  his  breath.  . . . 

4 And  then  the  olot  thickened  at  the  altar,  and  the  odour  of  myrrh 
and  frankincense,  and  little  bells  rang  to  a climax,  and  the  handsome 
young  priest,  let  us  hope,  felt  he  had  got  value  for  the  loss  of  that  hypo- 
thetical girl.’ 

f Unfortunately/  laments  De  Morgan,  ‘ trusting  in  my  faulty 
memory  and  in  the  Penny  Encyclopcedia , I put  the  wrong  words 
into  this  priest’s  mouth  or  the  right  words  at  the  wrong  moment, 
and  endowed  him  with  excellent  lungs/  His  cousin  Miss  Seeley, 


* ALICE  ’ AND  * SALLY  9 


291 

however,  arranged  that  the  misguided  author  should  meet  a 
Roman  Catholic  priest,  Father  Nolan,  in  order  to  correct  any 
essential  errors  of  which  he  had  been  guilty ; and  the  genial 
Irish  divine  and  the  grateful  heretic  passed  a cheery  evening  in 
each  other’s  society  to  which  both  subsequently  reverted  with 
delight. 

‘ I felt  my  position  acutely,’  De  Morgan  afterwards  related, 
‘ when  an  orthodox  Catholic  pointed  out  to  me  what  I had  done. 
" It  really  is  rather  unjust,”  said  this  gentleman,  whose  attitude 
of  forbearance  was  most  praiseworthy,  “ that  when  for  cen- 
turies we  have  been  accused  of  ‘ mumbling  our  hocus-pocus  ’ a 
novel-writer  should  represent  a priest  turning  to  the  congrega- 
tion and  shouting,  * Hoc  est  Corpus  Meum  ! ’ in  a stentorian 
voice.”  I explained  that  my  attitude  during  more  services  of 
the  Mass  than  I could  count  had  been  a happy  combination  of 
inattention  with  respect,  and  that  I had  acted  on  information 
received — like  the  police  when  they  made  a raid  on  a betting 
house.  No  doubt  the  description  of  the  service  which  I had 
relied  on  was  written  by  “ a pagan  suckled  in  a Creed  outworn.” 
He  asked  me  why  I had  not  invested  a small  sum  in  a Roman 
prayer-book,  and  I felt  that  I had  not  a leg  to  stand  upon.  I 
had  to  confess  to  an  egregious  blunder,  but  I did  what  I could  to 
the  passage  in  the  second  edition.  And  as  an  amende  honorable 
I called  the  officiating  priest  big,  instead  of  fat ; and  thus,  I 
hope,  averted  the  thunders  of  the  Vatican.* 


William  De  Morgan  to  Miss  Seeley. 

f x The  Vale, 

* King’s  Road, 

‘ Chelsea. 

* My  dear  Fanny,— 

* This  is  partly  to  repeat  what  a very  pleasant  time  we  had,  and 
partly  to  ask  you  to  pass  on  a message  to  Father  Nolan. 

‘ Tell  him  I am  glad  to  find  that  I was  not  altogether  deceived  in 
forgetting  that  I had  made  the  priest  shout  “ Hoc  est  Corpus  meum  ” 
aloud  to  the  congregation.  Because  the  text  does  not  warrant  that 
interpretation,  of  necessity.  In  fact,  I remember  distinctly  that  when  I 
wrote,  “ the  congregation  were  to  be  taken  into  confidence,”  I associated 
the  phrase  in  my  mind  only  with  the  showing  of  the  bread  and  the  chalice  ; 
not  with  the  speech,  which  I supposed  to  have  been  complete  by  then. 

‘ The  words  “ hoc  est  Corpus  ” following  as  they  do  after  “ with  that 
stupendous  voice  of  his  ” seem  to  mean  dramatically  more  than  they 
actually  do.  Fenwick  speaks  them — not  the  priest  at  all.  But  I note 
that  Fenwick  or  Rosalind,  whichever  described  the  scene  to  the  author,, 
must  have  made  some  confusion  of  the  time  at  which  the  congregation 
knelt. 

' I have  taken  this  said  author  to  task  for  his  graceless  attitude  on 
religion.  He  tries  to  sneak  out  by  saying  that  it  is  religious  engineering 
.hat  provokes  his  spleen,  not  any  form  of  feeling  towards  our  Cause.  He 
prefers  acquiescence  himself,  he  says,  but  chacun  a son  gout.  He  says, 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


292 

however,  that  he  has  cut  out  whole  pages  of  horrible  impiety  because  he 
wouldn’t  hurt  the  feelings  of  any  fellow  wanderers  in  Infinity — in  uniform 
or  out  of  it. 

‘ Do  you  know  he  says  he  altered  the  expression  on  p.  180,  “ A 
visible  certainty  ” from  “ as  chic  as  you  please,”  entirely  from  respect  for 
the  present  Pope.  Love  to  your  Mammy. 

* Your  affect.  Coz, 

* W.’ 

De  Morgan,  however,  was  fated  not  to  hear  the  last  of  his 
theological  faux  pas  for  a considerable  time  ; and  so  late  as  1913 
a priest,  Father  Vassall  Phillips,  sustained  a long  correspondence 
with  him  in  order  to  emphasize  the  lamentable  ignorance  on 
technical  points  of  ritual  which,  in  spite  of  revision  in  later 
editions,  the  book  still  displayed,  ‘and  which/  he  laid  stress  upon, 
‘ is  the  more  remarkable  in  a writer  like  you  who  photographs 
life  with  the  greatest  accuracy,  as  well  as  delicacy  of  touch/ 

The  crucial  points  of  complaint  were : — 

1 . The  employment  by  De  Morgan  of  the  word  ‘ et  ’ in  the  sentence 
of  consecration,  ‘ Hoc  est  corpus  meum  et  hie  * etc.,  which  suggests  that 
the  two  consecrations  are  conjoined  instead  of  being  one  only. 

2.  That  the  expression  ‘ his  handsome  abettor  ’ implied  there 
was  only  one  principal  ‘ abettor,’  whereas  there  are  always  two  taking 
part  in  the  service,  the  Deacon  and  Sub-deacon,  who  genuflect  together. 

3.  That  no  one,  excepting  Fenwick  in  the  text,  ever  called  Mass 
at  ten  o’clock  Messe  des  paresseux. 

4.  That  incense  is  never  offered  at  the  recital  of  psalms  in  the 
morning. 

5.  ‘ And  then  the  plot  thickened  at  the  altar  and  the  bells  rang  to 
a climax,’  etc.  The  ‘ climax  ’ in  the  Mass  is  the  consecration,  and  in 
Rome  they  never  ring  any  bells  at  Mass  after  the  Consecration. 

Father  Vassall  Phillips  further  pointed  out  that  ‘ No  Catholic 
layman  (not  one,  at  least,  in  a million)  knows  the  Words  of 
Consecration,  or  would  ever  dream  of  repeating  them  to  his  wife, 
if  he  did  know  them  ’ ; while  a final  and  more  serious  statement 
made  by  De  Morgan  in  private  correspondence  he  dwelt  on  at 
great  length.  For  De  Morgan,  perhaps  recalling  his  father’s 
definition  of  himself  and  his  family  as  ‘ Christians  unattached,’ 
had  observed  in  one  of  his  letters,  ‘ I doubt  whether  any  minister 
of  Religion  would  “ class  ” me  as  a Christian,  and  I do  not 
“ class  ” myself  at  all/  ‘ People/  stated  the  Priest,  ' who  say 
they  do  not  wish  to  “ class”  themselves  either  do  not  wish  to 
believe  or  have  not  taken  the  trouble  to  examine  the  evidences ,’ 
[twice  underlined]. 

The  reticence  displayed  by  De  Morgan  in  his  rejoinder  re- 
quires no  comment,  nor  the  finesse  and  quiet  humour  with  which 
he  parries  the  thrusts  of  a controversialist  possibly  incapable  of 
understanding  his  own  limitations  or  of  appreciating  the  humility 
of  an  outlook  less  positive  than  his  own. 


• ALICE  ' AND  * SALLY  ’ 


293 


* 127  Church  Street, 

* Chelsea,  S.W. 

* Oct.  26,  1913. 

* Dear  Father  Vassall  Phillips, — 

' I hasten  to  exonerate  myself  as  to  point  1 in  yours  of  Oct.  1. 
The  following  is  carefully  copied  from  the  article  “ Mass  ” in  the  Penny 
Cyclop  : 1839. 

* “ . . . the  priest  consecrates  the  bread  and  wine,  repeating  the 
words  : ‘ Hoc  est  corpus  meum,  et  hie  est  calix  sanguinis  mei,’  and  then 
shows  to  the  people  both  the  bread  and  the  chalice  containing  the  wine, 
upon  which  all  the  congregation  kneel  down.” 

* I need  hardly  say  that  I do  not  cite  the  P.C.  as  an  authority  about 
the  Sacraments,  in  opposition  to  what  you  tell  me.  But  to  be  as  accurate 
as  the  P.C.  is  sufficient  for  the  “ poor  scribbler  of  an  empty  day.”  It  is 
a high  standard  for  such  a one  ! Especially  if  not  one  lay  Catholic  in  a 
million  knows  the  words  of  Consecration. 

‘ A word  about  “ et.”  If  it  “ suggests  that  the  two  consecrations  are 
conjoined,”  does  not  its  omission  suggest  that  they  are  identical  ? Or  was 
Virgil’s  Latin  uncanonical,  in  the  fourth  century  ? 

‘ “ Sed  revocare  gradum  superasque  evadere  ad  auras  Hoc  opus,  hie 
labor  est.” 

‘ Virgil  can  scarcely  have  meant  that  the  opus  was  “ revocare  gradum ,” 
and  the  labor  “ evadere  ad  auras.”  It  seems  to  me  (only  I am  a very 
modest  Latinist)  that  total  distinction  would  call  for  “ hoc  est  corpus  . . . 
et  ille  est  calix.” 

‘ (2)  I agree  with  you  that  my  text  might  be  taken  to  imply  that 
there  was  only  one  “ abettor  ” — a handsome  one — but  that  was  not  my 
intention.  Probably  Rosalind  only  looked  at  the  handsome  one. 

* (3)  What  Fenwick  said,  thought,  or  remembered  at  that  moment  is 
the  only  speech,  thought,  or  memory  that  comes  into  question. 

‘ (4)  I thought  I had  smelt  incense  (in  the  Duomo  at  Florence)  before 
a high  mass  at  the  altar  in  the  central  enclosure.  I suppose  I was 
mistaken. 

‘ (5)  No  doubt  Father  Nolan  pointed  out  this  error,  which  I will 
examine  again  when  I get  a copy  of  my  first  impression.  But  I had  no 
recollection  of  making  the  alteration,  when  I wrote,  and  I have  none  now. 
One  forgets. 

‘ If  the  character  you  give  the  Catholic  laity  (ut  supra)  is  deserved,  I 
doubt  if  reference  to  any  lay  Catholic  would  be  of  much  use  for  revision 
of  the  blunders  of  an  ignoramus. 

‘ Also,  one  is  often  misinformed,  even  by  specialists.  I removed  a Polar 
Bear  (in  It  Never  Can  Happen  Again)  from  the  South  Pole  to  the 
North,  under  the  instruction  of  a number  of  correspondents  who  knew 
there  were  none  in  Antarctica.  Later  on,  I met  a man  who  had  travelled 
to  near  the  South  Pole,  and  put  the  case  to  him.  He  said  : “ Your 
correspondents  may  have  means  of  knowing  what  they  say  to  be  true — 
but  I won’t  answer  for  it  ! Put  your  bear  back  again  in  the  next  edition.” 
[ have  since  read  that  seals’  bodies  have  been  found  at  the  South  Pole  with 
the  marks  on  them  of  white  bears’  teeth. 

‘ An  illustration  is  suggested  by  what  you  say  about  what  a Christian 
.s.  Suppose  I touched  this  point  in  a work  of  fiction,  I should  have  to 
make  choice  of  a definition.  I could  accept  yours,  or  I could  accept  such 
a,  one  as  I suppose  Sir  Isaac  Newton  (for  instance)  would  have  given. 
But  I could  not  use  both.  I should  be  at  a standstill,  like  Buridan’s 
proverbial  ass  between  two  bundles  of  hay.  Sir  Isaac  was,  I believe,  a 
Unitarian.  You  hold  that  Jesus  the  Galilean  was  Almighty  God.  I am 
rot  in  a position  to  gainsay  this.  For  anything  I know  to  the  contrary, 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


294 

it  may  be  the  case.  But  neither  am  I qualified  to  deny  some  hundreds 
of  other  definitions  of  Christianity. 

‘ I think  (by  your  underlining  of  some  words  at  the  end  of  your  letter) 
that  you  have  classed  me  with  “ those  who  have  not  taken  the  trouble  to 
examine  the  evidences.”  Is  not  that  the  case  ? 

‘ I have  given  you  as  much  to  read  as  is  warrantable  ! Excuse  the 
length. 

* Yours  very  truly, 

‘ William  De  Morgan.’ 

Thus,  apparently,  closed  a correspondence  of  unusual  in- 
terest, defining  as  it  does  the  mental  attitude  of  two  men  whose 
traditions  and  training  were  so  opposed  as  that  of  the  Philosopher 
and  the  Priest — the  man  absorbed  in  problems  and  the  man 
sworn  to  eschew  them.  ‘ I have  no  antipathy  to  any  beliefs 
of  other  people/  De  Morgan  once  wrote  ; 1 I merely  take  excep- 
tion to  the  recitation  of  Creeds/  Yet  although  the  arbitrary 
acceptance  of  any  stereotyped  dogma  could  not  appeal  to  a man 
of  De  Morgan’s  mental  equipment,  of  his  very  temperament  he 
clung  to  the  belief  in  some  guiding  Spirit  of  the  Universe  who 
had  decreed  the  existence  of  a Future  wherein  all  should  be 
‘ Somehow  Good/ 

And  there  was  one  problem  with  which  he  was  ever  more 
constantly  confronted  ; for  as  the  trend  of  life’s  journey  begins 
to  be  downhill,  the  years  mark  ever  more  persistently  the  toll 
which  they  claim  from  the  affections  and  friendships  of  earlier 
days.  Death  crosses  the  pathway  more  frequently  ere  that  final 
day  when  he  stands,  a barrier  to  our  own  progress,  with  the  fiat 
' Thus  far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  farther/ 

One  of  the  first  copies  of  his  new  novel  had  been  dispatched 
by  De  Morgan  to  Lady  Burne-Jones  ; and  a few  days  later, 
hearing  of  the  death  of  her  brother-in-law,  he  wrote  as  follows  : — 

William  De  Morgan  to  Lady  Burne-Jones. 

‘ Florence, 

' Feb.  16 th,  1908. 

* My  dear  Georgie,— 

‘ I was  promising  myself  yesterday  at  the  Villa,  where  we  spent 
Saturday  evg.,  to  come  back  here  to-day  and  write  you  a cheerful  letter 
without  a flaw  on  its  horizon.  This  morning  I lighted  on  the  grievous 
news  of  your  family  loss  in  the  Times,  and  it  has  knocked  the  heart  out 
of  me  for  writing  cheerfully. 

‘ I know  Alfred  Baldwin  was  as  a brother  in  your  family,  although  I 
don’t  think  he  and  I met  more  than  half  a dozen  times — if  that  ! But — 
to  be  taken  away  like  this — at  an  age  I sometimes  think  must  be  young 
in  spite  of  traditions  ! However  it’s  the  great  old  subject  words  bring  no 
nearer  to  a clearness.  Sometimes  I think  if  words  would  leave  Death 
alone,  his  face  would  look  less  forbidding. 

‘ I write  pen-free  of  all  conventionality  to  you — we  have  known  so 
much  of  each  other’s  troubles — and  this  line  will  do  as  it  stands  to  place 
us  among  those  who  share  your  grief  and  your  sister’s  ...  all  our  sym- 
pathies go  with  it.  . . . 


* ALICE  ' AND  * SALLY 


295 

* Write,  so,  when  you’ve  read  the  book,  and  tell  me  exacftv  how  the 
philosophy  of  it  (if  so  grand  an  expression  may  be  allowed)  strikes  you. 
Some  of  the  reviewers  have  caught  the  idea. 

‘ The  book  is,  I believe,  flying  through  the  press — 6,000  were  ordered 
anticipatamente,  and  a second  issue  is  in  hand  already.  I often  think  of 
how  all  your  readings  of  the  typed  Joseph  Vance  were  what  set  me  going 
straight  on  with  a second — gave  me  backbone  for  it.  It  has  been  a 
strange  story.’ 

And  only  the  next  month  De  Morgan  was  penning  a yet 
sadder  expression  of  sympathy  on  that  subject  which  ‘ words 
bring  no  nearer  to  clearness.’  He  loved  children — who  that  has 
read  his  books  can  fail  to  see  how  he  entered  into  the  brain  and 
being  of  his  little  dream-children  ? — and  when  he  received  a 
letter  telling  him  of  a mother  who  had  lost  her  little  daughter, 
he  wrote  in  the  fulness  of  his  heart : — 

1 27 th  March,  1908. 

‘ My  dear  Maisie  Dowson, — 

‘ I have  just  had  the  most  heartbreaking  letter  from  Lawrence, 
telling  me.  Really  I can  hardly  bear  to  think  of  it — it  is  too  cruel — there 
was  I only  the  other  day  writing  to  you  not  knowing,  and  joking,  for  all  I 
remember,  about  this  darling  little  thing — and  all  the  time  it  was  this  ! 

' I could  not  write  at  all  about  it,  only  now  I have  got  so  old  and  horny 
with  constant  news  of  death  that  I care  little  how  I word  the  old  tale — 
your  grief  is  my  grief  too — tells  it  in  a phrase. 

‘ But  more  and  more,  the  nearer  I get  to  my  own  exit,  I suspect  that 
there  must  he  a sun  in  the  background — somewhere  in  the  worst  of  the 
dark,  if  we  knew  where  to  look  for  it.  It  is  only  a suspicion — but  then 
it  is  a suspicion  of  a fact — and  that’s  better  than  a full-blown  hope  of  an 
uncertainty — not  very  clear,  I know,  but  forgive  it.  My  suspicions  crept 
into  Joe  Vance — you  remember  ? — and  I don’t  expect  ever  to  counter- 
write them — in  fact  they  strengthen,  it  may  be  mere  cowardice  that  keeps 
them  stunted. 

* Still,  this  expedition  of  the  soul  through  existence  does  seem  ill- 
organized,  as  far  as  this  world  goes — perhaps  the  total  means  to  show  up 
better — that’s  the  chance  ! 

‘ My  next  letter  but  one  or  two,  must  be  to  Egypt,  about  a gravestone — 
for  Mary,  I had  nearly  written — but  that  contains  the  current  ideas  of 
interment— and  they  are  not  mine. 

■ If  no  further  change  occurs  to  either,  we  shall  meet  in  June.  Till 
then  I can  only  send  best  wishes  for  the  best  that  may  be — for  there  is 
always  a low-grade  best  left  for  us.’ 

Meanwhile,  as  Sally  made  her  triumphal  progress  through 
the  press,  De  Morgan  received  appreciations  alike  from  friends 
and  strangers,  a few  of  which  may  be  quoted  here : — 

Lady  Tennant  to  William  De  Morgan . 

* 34  Queen  Anne’s  Gate,  S.W., 

* Feb . 14,  1908. 

* Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan, — 

‘ You  will  have  known  that  my  waiting  to  acknowledge  your  most 
kind  thought  in  sending  me  your  book  was  only  in  order  that  I should  the 
better  be  able  to  say  Thank  you,  having  read  it.  And  now  I have  finished 


296  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

it,  alas,  and  can  sit  down  and  say  Thank  you  most  thoroughly.  Oh,  1 
have  enjoyed  it.  And  I am  so  indebted  to  you  for  writing  such  altogether 
beautiful  and  lovable  books. 

‘ Of  course,  it  is  full  of  most  particular  bits,  your  books  always  are, 
bits  that  one  thinks  as  one  reads,  “Now  there's  what  I’ve  always  noticed  ! ” 
or  “ Now  that’s  what  I like  best  of  all.”  ...  It  is  all  delightful,  all 
most  welcome  and  so  much  loved  in  this  family  l Things  have  come 
to  be  spoken  of,  little  things  noticed  and  known  as  De  Morganisms,  now. 
And  when  my  husband  reads  aloud  to  me,  I am  in  a continuous  simmer  of 
laughter  and  comfortable  amusement.  I think  you  must  be  very  glad 
and  grateful  to  have  done  so  much. 

‘ Of  course,  Sally  is  complete.  But  Tishy  is  so  amusing  and  pleasant 
too,  and  her  name  so  nice.  And  the  phrase  I think  that  I like  even  best 
of  all  is  the  old  Goody  who  wobbles  down  upon  you  like  a hen,  and  goosles 
at  you.  That  I prize  enormously.  Then  how  much  I like  such  things  as 
“ cows  that  didn’t  mind  how  long  they  waited  at  it,  having  time  on  their 
hands” — and  then  of  course  the  “ Warrp”  to  the  horse  ••  who  was  trying 
to  eat  himself  and  dig  the  road  up.”  All  these  things  make  the  reading 
of  your  books  a joy  and  the  last  page  almost  a sorrow — and  I keep 
looking  round  for  the  people,  and  wondering  where  they  are,  and  missing 
them.  So  you  see,  I do  love  your  books. 

‘ But  would  Sally,  being  the  great  dear  she  was — and  the  heart  of 
candour,  would  she — feeling  there  was  something  in  her  mother’s  life  she 
had  never  been  talked  to  about — would  she  have  asked  other  people  about 
it  ? — tried  to  find  out  from  the  other  old  Major,  for  instance  ? Would 
she  not  have  felt,  if  her  mother  didn’t  speak  to  her  about  it,  she  wouldn’t 
care  to  ask  about  it  or  hear  of  it  from  anyone  else  ? I can’t  help  feeling 
it  unlike  her.  I can  more  readily  imagine  her  asking  her  mother  straight 
out.  But  this  is  only  a little  feeling.  I have  suddenly  remembered  the 
phrase  dealing  with  the  “ office  staff  at  Cattley’s,  who  were  none  of  them 
Hottentots,  but  the  contrary,”  and  the  Sales-Wilson  menage,  and  the  bit 
that  observes  “ that  most  awakening  of  incidents,  a person  determined 
not  to  disturb  you.”  How  is  it  you  have  not  only  been  able  to  observe 
life  so  well  and  kindlily,  but  also  so  funnily,  and  altogether  amazingly  ? 

‘ Then  how  lovely  the  thought  is  in  the  line,  “ it  would  make  all  the 
difference  just  to  see  her  there,  alive,  and  leagues  away  in  dreamland.” 
It  is  what  I have  felt  often  when  I go  up  to  see  the  children  asleep,  they 
are  there,  close  to  one,  yet  leagues  away. 

* But  I am  sending  this  to  Mr.  Heinemann,  and  at  the  same  time 
asking  him  to  send  you  a copy  of  the  little  book  I wrote  for  children  this 
Xmas.  It  is  only  a very  small  return  for  so  much  pleasure  given  through 
your  books. 

* I am, 

‘ Yours  very  gratefully, 

* Pamela  Tennant.* 

William  De  Morgan  to  Lady  Tennant . 

‘ 18  Feb.  1908. 

* It’s  myself  is  indeed  “ glad  and  grateful  ” to  get  letters  like  yours — 
though  indeed  I get  very  few  so  well  worded  to  touching  point. 

* It  is  so  satisfactory  to  know  that  phrases  I really  hesitated  to  write 
lest  they  should  be  too  overstrained  (the  goosling  goody,  e.g.)  have  found 
a haven  and  a ready  recognition.  It  gives  one  the  courage  of  one’s  con- 
victions next  time. 

' I must  tell  you  honestly  I wavered  a good  deal  before  I decided  that 
Sally  hung  fire  of  tackling  her  mother  about  her  story.  But  I found  she 
did  it  in  my  dream  (so  to  explain  it)  and  I let  the  dream  have  its  way.  I 


Queen  Eleanor  and  Fair  Rosamond 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  pinxit 


‘ALICE*  AND  ‘SALLY*  297 

don’t  know  how  the  story  would  have  worked  without  her  doing  so.  If 
I had  forced  this  point  it  might  all  have  worked  out  differently. 

‘ We  shall  not  be  back  till  June,  but  will  then  come  and  say,  “ Come  on 
board  ” at  Queen  Anne’s  Gate. 

‘ I got  your  most  enjoyable  book  about  the  pictures  a good  while  ago — 
but  now  I shall  just  give  away  my  copy,  and  treasure  the  one  of  your 
sending.  Your  folk-lore  and  the  scent  of  hay-fields  and  the  speech  of 
country -life  give  me  a mixed  sense  of  Chaucer  and  White’s  Selborne  hard 
to  parallel  elsewhere.  The  pictures  are  uncommonly  well  copied  too— as 
good  tricolours  as  I have  seen. 

' Please  deal  out  kindest  remembrances  from  us  both  to  all  of  your 
family  whom  we  can  claim  to  know — a good  several,  and  forgive  a rapid 
scrawl  by  a hand  that  cannot  always  write  as  much  as  its  owner  would 
like  to.  This  letter  is  a case  in  point.’ 

H.  Marillier1  to  William  De  Morgan . 

* Feb.  22nd,  1908. 

* We  have  just  begun  Somehow  Good  and  are  enjoying  it — at  least  I 
am,  for  my  wife  is  still  in  the  throes  of  Joseph  Vance. 

‘ I see  nothing  but  your  portraits  now  in  the  illustrated  papers,  and  I 
expect  it  is  hobnobbing  with  Church  and  Stage  in  the  shop  windows.  I 
understand  that  a De  Morgan  Society  has  been  formed  in  America  with 
affiliated  branches  all  over  the  world,  and  that  the  favourite  tune  on  the 
barrel  organs  is  a revival  of  that  fine  ancient  ditty  “ De  Morgan  was  a 
bloody  buccaneer.”  The  entire  song  was  warbled  to  me  over  lunch  the 
other  day  at  the  Bath  Club  by  Sir  Frank  Swettenham  (to  whom  I had 
lent  Alice)  and  after  several  ladies  had  shown  signs  of  collapse,  we  felt  it 
judicious  to  leave  the  Club  quietly. 

The  same  to  the  same. 

* April  8th f 1908. 

* I have  carried  your  letter  about  next  my  heart  for  weeks  past  intending 
to  write  and  answer  it,  I have  also  been  cherishing  since  the  28th  of  Febru- 
ary last,  a cutting  about  a ring,  reminiscent  of  Alice-for-Short  which  came 
up  in  the  earlier  stages  of  what  is  still  known  as  the  “ Cliff  Mystery.” 

‘ You  ask  me  which  is  earnest  and  which  is  joke  about  the  “ bloody 
buccaneer.”  The  barrel  organs  were  my  own  invention  (I  am  not  generally 
credited  with  having  any).  I believe  the  “ De  ” was  mine  also.  I haven’t 
seen  Sir  Frank  since.  (He,  by  the  way,  is  a sort  of  Bloody  Buccaneer 
himself — the  man  who  made  Singapore  peaceful.  Have  you  read  his 
Unaddressed  Letters  ? — if  not,  do.) 

‘ But  I can  dimly  remember  one  gem-like  verse  from  the  ballad,  which 
is  probably  in  print  somewhere. 

* Him  pull  down  de  Church, 

Him  burn  de  organ, 

Him  ravish  all  de  nuns,  oh  dear  J 
So  now  de  debbil 
Am  sure  of  Morgan 
Bloody,  bloody,  bloody  buccaneer  ! 

* I hope  you  and  your  lady  flourish.  We  are  just  beginning  to  think 
of  birds  and  beasts  and  flowers  here.  Daffodils  out,  and  thrushes  building 
in  our  eaves — or  is  that  swallows  ? Marble  Arch  has  become  an  oasis 
in  a desert  of  wood  pavement,  like  the  statue  of  Mammon  ; Picture 
Sunday  is  over,  and  Punch  has  had  a new  joke  on  the  subject,  quite 


1 The  Biographer  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti. 


298  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

a good  one.  We  are  sending  the  newly-completed,  long-belated  “ Passing 
of  Venus  ” Tapestry  to  the  New  Gallery. 

* But,  lor,  I expect  you  know  more  English  news  than  we  do!’ 

In  reference  to  this  letter  it  may  be  added  that  De  Morgan, 
perhaps  on  account  of  his  descent  from  the  buccaneer  Archbishop 
of  York,  used  always  to  declare  facetiously  that  nature  had 
intended  him  for  a ‘ bold,  bad  buccaneer/  On  one  occasion 
when  a lady  had  taken  a snap-shot  of  him,  he  afterwards  sent 
her  one  of  his  novels  with  the  inscription  : — 

* From  the  author,  as  a token  of  forgiveness  for  not  snap-shotting 
him  in  the  semblance  of  a buccaneer , which  is  what  he  would  like  to 
seem,  but  rather  as  a “ kindly  old  gentleman ,”  which  is  not  his 
ambition.  It  may  be  his  fault — • who  can  say  ? ' 

Shortly  after  the  publication  of  his  third  novel,  De  Morgan 
heard  again  from  his  old  correspondent  Mr.  Vance,  announcing : — 

‘ Oddly  enough  (in  view  of  the  old  Joseph  Vance  coincidence),  our 
books  were  published  within  a week  of  one  another,  over  here,  mine 
appeared  on  the  book-stands  on  February  ist,  yours  on  the  8th.  And  of 
course  the  publishers’  advance  notices,  milled  through  the  intellectuals  of 
newspaper  literary  editors,  got  beautifully  mixed  up.  I saw  only  the  other 
day  a paragraph  in  some  paper  to  the  effect  that  the  new  book  by  Joseph 
Vance,  author  of  The  Brass  Bowl,  was  to  wear  the  curious  title  of  Somehow 
Good  ! I’d  have  sent  you  my  book — but  you’d  be  irritated  by  our  simple- 
tonified  spelling,  and  you  won’t  care  for  it,  partly  because  it’s  the  same  old 
story — Knock-down-and-set-’em-up-again — and  partly  because  it  wasn’t 
written  for  the  like  o’  you,  but  for  quite  another  sort  of  reader — one  who 
wants  a drug,  not  a tonic.’ 

In  most  of  the  letters  which  passed  between  De  Morgan  and 
his  ' literary  godson  '—a  correspondence  which  extended  over 
the  space  of  ten  years — a peculiar  interest  is  attached  to  the 
confidences  of  those  two  authors  who  had  been  brought  in  con- 
tact by  a strange  coincidence  while  living  so  far  sundered  in 
locality,  in  age,  and  in  the  mentality  that  pervaded  their  work, 
which  latter,  however,  was  a difference  of  seeming  only,  created 
by  the  force  of  circumstance.  4 If  only  I were  on  your  review- 
ignoring  altitude ! * lamented  Mr.  Vance ; ‘ but  for  the  present 
I have  merely  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I am  the  biggest 
frog  in  my  own  particular  puddle.  ' And  after  reading  Mr.  Vance’s 
latest  publication,  The  Black  Bag,  De  Morgan  wrote : — 

‘ It  will  excite  the  readers  of  whom  you  speak  to  madness, 
and  they  are  numerous,  and  they  ask  to  be  excited.  But  I 
expect  the  author  did  not  always  feel  the  excitement.  He 
knew  the  way  to  excite  them,  and  did  it,  thoroughly.  But  the 
demands  of  their  simple  faith,  that  in  Romance-land  something 
always  turns  up  in  the  nick,  spoils  the  story  for  outsiders — their 
circles'  outsiders.  And  all  these  last  who  read  your  book  will 
say  “ Surely  this  shop  has  goods  for  me  too — next  week  if  not 
in  stock  to-day  ”...  I see  you  have  struck  a vein,  and  they 


• ALICE  1 AND  * SALLY 


299 

will  want  the  knock-down-and-set-’em-up-again,  ad  libitum . But 
you  will  live  to  do  yourself  justice,  and  I hope  I shall  be  on 
this  planet  to  see  it.  . . . Few  could  write  these  books  and 
give  so  clearly  as  you  do  the  impression  of  a Hinterland  in  the 
author’s  mind.' 

And  in  response  to  Mr.  Vance’s  plaint  of  brain-fag,  he  added 

' Overstrain  gives  the  brain  no  notice,  I find.  And  I am 
glad  that,  this  work  having  come  to  me  very  late,  it  has  come 
in  a form  that  leaves  me  free  to  throw  down  my  pen  at  any 
moment.  Half-a-dozen  Times’  leaders,  under  pressure  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning,  would  have  sent  me  to  the  hospital. 
I hope,  however,  that  a steady  circulation  of  the  books  you 
have  already  out  will  secure  your  leisure  for  work  on  my  happy 
public- ignoring  line.  I really  never  give  a thought  to  the  ques- 
tion whether  my  reader  will  complain  or  not.  For  all  the 
wiggings  I’ve  had  for  spinning  out  and  prosing  I shall  just  go  on 
doing  it  as  much  as  I like.  But  then  I have  been  lucky,  and 
Heinemann  has  been  angelic.  Five  hundred  odd  pages,  and 
never  a murmur  ! . . . Pleasant  information  reached  me  yester- 
day that  8,700  copies  of  Alice  had  been  printed  in  England.’ 

Upon  receipt  of  Sally,  other  of  his  former  correspondents 
likewise  wrote: — 

Mrs . Fleming  to  William  De  Morgan. 

* 71 1,  Loudon  Street, 

' Calcutta, 

* Feb.  'I'jth,  1908. 

* Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan  (which  a Dear  you  are — and  ever  will  be — 
sspecially  while  you  write  such  books), — 

* From  a sun-scorched  and  dust-laden  city  where  flame  flowered 
trees  shed  petals — like  sparks  without  pity  to  fire  every  breeze — Gold 
mohur,  red  cassia,  poincettia,  hibiscus — ( mutabalis  sort),  I send  you  all 
thanks  for  your  letter,  and  Alice -f or -Short. 

* It’s  too  hot  for  jingles,  but  I was  going  to  write  to  you  this  week 
— in  any  case,  because  Alice-for -Short  has  at  last  reached  a Calcutta 
library,  having  apparently  rounded  the  Cape  five  times  first — like  old 
Madeira, — and  I wanted  to  tell  you  how  much  I loved  her  and  enjoyed 
tier  surroundings — and  while  that  letter  waited  to  materialize — lo!  and 
behold — you  send  me  Somehow  Good.  Therefore  it  was  doubtless  your 
brain  wave  that  washed  Alice-j ’or -Short  into  my  eager  clutch.  The 
ghosts  delighted  me  particularly  and  I do  admire  to  see  how  every 
slightest  incident  works  in  and  becomes  an  important  part  of  the 
pattern.  Was  it  grasping  of  me  that  I wanted  some  one  to  see  Old 
Jane’s  pretty  young  wraith — while  she  lay  entranced — her  poor  young 
little  spirit — freed  from  the  body  and  its  wrong.  Her  return  to  life  is 
almost  unbearably  painful — as  bad  as  the  touch  of  Janey’s  rings — which 
I have  not  yet  forgiven  you  for.  Also  in  Somehow  Good  it  was  only  the 
affection  and  confidence  of  a lifetime  that  enabled  me  to  trust  you 
during  your  shocking  attempt  to  drown  Sally.  Once  or  twice  even  my 
faith  faltered — and  I had  to  sniff  and  gain  courage  to  go  on. 


3oo  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

* But  as  yet  I have  only  read  that  book  once — so  I am  not  competent 
to  talk  of  it  as  I can  of  Joseph  and  Alice.  Oh,  the  dedication  to  E.  B.-J. 
and  W.  M.  1 warmed  my  heart — a living  protest  against  the  wickedness 
of  thinking  of  them  in  the  past  tense. 

‘ I am  as  certain  of  life’s  continuance  as  I am  that  I now  live — but 
nothing  really  comforts  the  present  pain  of  the  parting  here  and  now. 
Do  you  remember  my  automatic  script  ? You  and  Evelyn  are  of  the  few 
I venture  to  talk  to  about  it.  It  goes  on  fairly  regularly,  yet  is  dull 
when  I read  it  over.  But  I send  it — secretly — to  the  patient  S.  P.  R. 
and  they  sometimes  find  things  that  seem  to  count.  For  instance — here 
in  Calcutta  on  Oct.  17th,  1906,  my  hand  wrote  : — 

* “ Nor  guessed  what  flowers  would  deck  a grave  ” Downing.  . . . 

* “ Do  not  let  A.  be  seriously  perturbed.  This  will  be  a slight  attack 
and  a very  brief  one.  A.  T.  M.” 

‘ That  doesn’t  sound  evidential — but  when  one  learns  that  on  Oct. 
17th — Dr.  A.  W.  V.  of  Cambridge  went  to  see  the  Downing  Professor — 
who  was  ill — finding  this  particular  attack  had  been  slight  and  brief,  and 
that  A . T.  M.  are  the  initials  of  a dead  doctor  of  medicine,  friend  of  them 
both — it  gives  one  a little  to  think — "doesn’t  it  ? Also — on  the  death 
day  of  the  poor  Downing  Professor  two  months  later — there  were  two 
“ coincidences  ” in  my  script.  Of  course,  I am  not  told  of  anything 
evidential  until  long  and  long  after.  . . . 

‘ P.S.  I am  very  much  indebted  to  you  for  the  blessed  assurance  of 
the  death  of  the  Octopus.  Life  with  such  an  one  would  have  been  far 
worse  than  ten  drowning  deaths  for  Sally.’ 

William  De  Morgan  to  Mrs.  Holiday . 

* March  1,  1908. 

* Dear  Kate, — 

* I am  very  anxious  to  see  a letter  I have  been  waiting  for  from 
you  with  a complete  criticism  of  the  last  book.  . . . 

‘ There  are  more  blunders  in  this  book  than  in  both  the  others  put 
together.  I find  I wrote  All’s  well  that  ends  well  for  Much  ado  about 
nothing — why  I can’t  say — can  only  conjecture. 

‘ I don’t  think  anything  of  having  made  Orion  visible  at  the  wrong 
time  of  year — besides  he  was  coming  very  soon — and  his  name  is  too 
beautiful  to  leave  out  of  a star-studded  sky,  on  paper. 

* I thought  to  have  managed  corrections  for  the  second  impression, 
but  it  jumped  out  too  quick  for  me. 

‘ I like  the  sound  of  your  cottage — to  me,  it’s  always  delightful  in 
Westmorland,  because  I’ve  never  been  there,  and  am  only  told  of  the 
excursions  people  have  had  there,  over  mountains. 

‘ Florence  is  deliciously  quiet,  because  the  Trams  have  struck — not 
but  what  they  spend  their  lives  striking,  like  hysterical  clocks,  to  make 
one  clear  out  of  the  way.  They’ve  stopped  that  way,  and  done  it  the 
other.  The  place  is  delightful  without  them. 

* Our  loves  to  you  all.  May  England  be  merry  for  you  is  our  wish.* 

Two  days  later  arrived  a warm  appreciation  of  Sally  from 
Mrs.  Holiday  : * The  writing,  your  manner  has  taken  the  world 
by  storm/  she  wrote,  * and  the  way  it  seems  at  once  to  have 
taken  to  you — the  instant  affection  I notice  in  people’s  faces 
even  when  they  refer  to  you — the  way  your  admirers  shake 

1 Alice-j or -Short  was  dedicated  to  Edward  Burne-Jones  and  William 
Morris. 


* ALICE  * AND  * SALLY  * 301 

hands,  is  all  so  perfectly  delightful  and  satisfactory — that  in  our 
old  age  it  has  been  a most  delightful  experience/  And  she 
adds  : ‘ Among  your  ardent  admirers  I find  only  two  small 
points  of  criticism  made ; one  is  that  Lossie  is  only  interesting 
because  she  is  the  woman  Joseph  Vance  loves  ; and  the  other 
is  that  in  Alice-for-Short  you  might  have  made  Charlie  and 
Alice  more  quickly  come  to  an  understanding  ; it  was,  however, 
quite  natural  they  should  not : they  were  such  dears  they  feared 
taking  advantage  of  each  other  ! ’ 

‘ I am  so  glad  I can’t  tell  you/  De  Morgan  replied,  ‘ that 
Sally  has  given  you  all  such  satisfaction.  She  is  now  passing 
for  me  into  the  stage  of  being  a little  party  I once  knew  and  can 
talk  about.  Like  the  others  ! For  when  I say,  for  instance,  that 
Charley  and  Alice  were  like  the  converse  of  two  pugilists  keeping 
away  and  dodging  round  and  round  a moveable  point,  I say  it 
as  about  two  independent  characters  that  I,  for  one,  had  no 
share  in  the  construction  of.  I shouldn’t  know  how  to  set  about 
altering  them  now  ! I myself  never  felt  Lossie  as  interesting  as 
Janey,  but  a good  lot  of  folk  I have  talked  to  have  simply  taken 
it  for  granted  that  Lossie  is  the  cynosure  of  the  story.  And  in 
this  case  too  I have  washed  my  hands  of  the  story  personally, 
as  it  were,  and  can  only  speculate  from  what  Joe  says.  I don’t 
know  ! 

* I think  and  hope  that  anyone  reading  any  of  my  stories 
hereafter  will  say,  “ Evidently  this  chap  had  known  much  nicer 
women  than  Dickens  or  Thackeray.”  I suspect  it  is  actually 
the  fact.  That  is  quite  true  about  mothers  and  daughters — 
novelists  seem  to  have  cultivated  a parti  pris  of  detestableness, 
why  ? — in  the  name  of  Goodness ’ 

Nevertheless,  De  Morgan  was  himself  accused  of  a form  of 
‘ detestableness/  which  was  alluded  to  by  several  correspondents 
in  varying  terms.  Among  these  the  following  comments  caused 
him  some  amusement : — 

A Stranger  to  William  De  Morgan. 

‘ Somehow  you  have  the  knack  of  making  one  feel  at  home  with  your 
characters,  especially  the  girls.  Only  it  seems  to  me  that  your  experience 
of  old  ladies  must  have  been  unfortunate,  for  nearly  all  your  elderly  ladies 
are  exasperating.  Your  fathers  are  nice,  and  your  sisters  just  perfect, 
but  I wish  you  knew  a real  living  unselfish  old  lady  to  be  somebody’s 
mother  in  your  next  story.  I could  introduce  you  to  several. 

‘ Joseph  Vance  was  particularly  interesting  to  me  because  for  one  thing 
most  of  the  characters  lived  near  Balham,  where  I lived  16  years ; 
then  he  played  chess,  and  so  evidently  you  are  a chess  player.  . . . And 
lastly  you  are  evidently  fond  of  music.  Altogether  you  give  me  the 
impression  of  being  a nice  person  to  know  and  to  have  a game  of  chess 
with.  But  goodness  knows  where  you  live  or  whether  you  will  ever 
trouble  to  answer  a complete  stranger  ? Never  mind,  it  won’t  do  you 
any  harm  to  know  that  your  books  have  given  pleasure  to  some  one — all 
but  those  old  ladies.’ 


302 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


A Stranger  to  William  De  Morgan . 

* Philadelphia, 

‘ Pennsylvania,  U.S.A. 

• Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan,— 

‘ Thank  you  for  the  golden  hours  you  have  given  me  with  Joseph, 
Alice,  and  the  dears  in  Somehow  Good,  including  that  old  humbug  the 
Octopus.  I can’t  feel  as  if  I were  addressing  a perfect  stranger,  because 
in  reading  your  books  I have  lived  in  them,  chuckling  aloud  and  weeping 
(audibly)  too. 

‘ To  help  me  to  pass  weary,  wakey  nights  when  folks  should  be  asleep, 
I play  the  game  of  pretend — pretending  to  be  some  one  whom  I like  . . . 
what  a difference  that  does  make  ! and  last  night  I was  you.  Such  a 
funny  patch- work  you  ! There  was  some  of  Dr.  Thorpe,  a little  of  Joseph, 
whole  lots  of  Mr.  Charley  and  little  bits  of  Hugh,  Rupert,  Jerry — the  rage 
of  sticking  envelopes,  for  instance — the  Major  and  C.  Dance  in  for  good 
measure. 

* I’m  very  sorry  if  I took  liberties  with  you,  but  at  any  rate  you  owe 
me  thanks  for  not  putting  into  the  “ you  ” I was  last  night  a single  bit  ol 
that  dish-watery  little  G.P.  [General  Practitioner]  you  palmed  off  on 
Sally  ! ’ 

Sir  Theodore  Cook  to  William  De  Morgan. 

‘ March  nth,  1908. 

* I should  like  to  thank  you  for  your  charming  novels  and  to  send  you 
a motto  for  Sally  (I  gave  up  her  correct  surname),  in  Somehow  Good. 

* It  is  not  very  classical,  but  most  appropriate. 

* Parvula,  pumilio,  xaPir(a v t°ta  rnerum  sal. 

* Yours  sincerely 

‘ Theodore  A.  Cook.’ 

Mrs.  Drew  to  William  De  Morgan. 

‘ Hawarden  Rectory, 

‘ May  7.2nd,  ’08. 

* I am  going  next  Monday  to  Aix  les  Bains,  and  hardly  know  how  to 
undertake  a long  journey  without  a Lossie  or  an  Alice  or  a Sally. 

' I was  so  glad  to  hear  (when  I was  in  London),  from  Mr.  Masterman, 
that  the  late  Prime  Minister  (Campbell-Bannerman)  would  gladly  have 
put  off  dying  another  fortnight  if  by  that  means  he  could  have  ensured 
reading  a 4th  Novel  of  yours. 

‘ Some  one  told  me  you  had  several  typed — so  after  all,  he  might  have 
had  the  4th  treat  ? 

‘ I wished  I had  known  before  the  funeral  at  the  Abbey  instead  ol 
immediately  after  it,  as  standing  close  to  his  coffin  I should  have  had  such 
a fellow  feeling — it  wd  have  made  me  such  a real  mourner — whereas  I 
scarcely  knew  him. 

* I suppose  you  haven’t  a novel  in  type  or  MS.  for  me  to  read  on  the 
journey  ? Please  ask  Mr.  Heinemann  to  publish  a new  edition  of  the 
three  in  good  print.’ 

A Stranger  to  William  De  Morgan. 

‘ " Journey’s  End,” 

‘ Ohio,  U.S.A. 

‘ Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan, — 

* I have  often  wondered  if  you  would  be  interested  to  know  how 
much  one  American  girl  enjoys  your  books,  and  to  hear  of  the  queer  places 
into  which  they  have  penetrated. 


* ALICE  ’ AND  * SALLY 


303 

* Have  you  been  to  Grand  Manan  Island  ? One  stormy  day  when  the 
fog  horn  blew  continuously  I first  met  44  Sally.”  Two  years  later  I was 
sitting  alone  (and  feeling  very  much  alone)  in  a wee  Japanese  coach  just 
leaving  Kamakura.  I suppose  I did  stare  rather  hard  at  the  big  English- 
woman and  her  tiny  husband  opposite,  but  they  kept  looking  at  me.  As 
they  left  the  train  she  turned  back  and  said  hesitatingly,  "You  remind 
us  both  of  Sally  kins — do  you  know  her  ? ” I nearly  shouted,  " Of  course 
I do,”  from  the  open  window  in  my  eagerness  to  acknowledge  our  mutual 
friend. 

4 When  I like  anyone  particularly  I send  him  or  her  one  of  your  books. 
There  is  one  copy  in  Montana  that  has  travelled  from  one  end  to  the 
other  of  Dead  Man’s  Canyon.  Another  that  has  been  loaned,  so  its  owner 
writes  me,  to  every  English  reading  resident  in  the  small  Indian  village. 
You  have  so  many  adm  ^ers  over  here  in  this  country  of  ours.  Do  please 
write  lots  of  books. 

* Sincerely  yours, 

4 V.  B.  L.’ 

A Stranger  to  William  De  Morgan. 

4 San  Francisco, 

4 1908.’ 

‘Dear  Sir,— 

4 I want  to  thank  you  for  a new  world  of  pleasure  and  delight, 
which  you  gave  me  in  Somehow  Good. 

4 Last  night  I set  the  book  down  with  deep  regret.  And  I resolved 
then  to  do  that  unpardonable  thing — write  to  the  author. 

4 This  because  I know  you  are  very  human,  and  will  be  glad  to  hear 
from  an  unknown  reader  thousands  of  miles  away. 

4 I ambled  along  over  Somehow  Good,  just  poking  along  delightfully. 
And  it  was  one  of  the  chiefest  pleasures  of  the  book  that  I could  do  so — 
instead  of  being  histed-highsted  out  of  my  chair  by  a clang  and  bang  of 
emotions.  In  short,  I lived  in  that  tale. 

4 There  was  a dear  Mer-pussy,  a Sally  kin  belonged  to  us  once,  tho’ 
no  such  shadow  of  blinding  sorrow  as  threatened  your  Sally  ever  happened 
in  her  history.  But  there  were  all  sorts  of  similar  names — even  to  a 
44  Jeremiah,”  and  all  sorts  of  breathless  capers.  She  learnt  to  swim,  and 
many  a joyful  plunge  she  had  at  Boulogne.  But  the  fate  that  I trembled 
over  for  your  Sallykins — death  in  the  sunlight  of  youth — took  our  Sallykins 
away.  Tho’  it  was  not  the  sea — what  matter  ? She  sleeps  at  St.Rocque 
in  Paris  now,  and  the  rest  of  us  miss  her  sorely. 

4 You  have  made  tears  of  tenderness  come  to  my  eyes.  Somehow 
Good  will  not  be  forgotten.  How  we  shall  be  on  the  look-out  for  more 
De-Morganatic  literature. 

* A grateful  reader, 

4C.  P.’ 

A Stranger  to  William  De  Morgan 

4 Glasgow, 

‘Aug.  24 ih,  1911. 

* Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan, — 

4 I really  wanted  to  say  Joseph  Vance — because  you  are  Joseph 
Vance,  aren’t  you  ? It  struck  me  last  night  when  I was  lying  awake 
listening  to  the  wind  trying  to  tear  off  our  roof,  and  enjoying  the  society 
of  Joseph  and  Lossie,  and  Sally  and  Old  Prosy,  as  I often  do— it  struck 
me  that  it  would  only  be  a gracious  thing  to  thank  my  host.  I mean,  I 
have  enjoyed  that  society  for  so  many  months  that  I must  thank  some  one. 
It  is  like  suddenly  being  cured  of  some  hideously  painful  disease  and  going 
off  without  saying  thank  you  to  the  surgeon. 


504  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

‘ I am  not  a girl — I was  thirty -two  last  birthday  and  I have  a jovial 
husband  and  three  wee  buddies  of  my  own.  But  I have  not  lost  my 
capability  for  dizzy  joys  and  keen  delights.  I want  to  die  before  that 
goes  from  me.  I think  I want  to  go  home  in  the  middle  of  the  party 
still.  I used  to  have  to  go  when  I was  young.  It  seemed  a hardship 
then,  but  I know  now  that  it  was  not.  All  this  about  myself  : but  I 
want  you  to  understand.  Nothing  outside  of  me  and  my  life,  has  given 
me  the  endless  joy  that  I have  found  under  the  covers  of  Joseph  Vance 
and  Somehow  Good — I can  say  Alice- for-Short  too,  because  I am  reading 
Alice  now.  In  all  my  life,  beyond  the  sun  on  the  sea  and  the  wind  across 
the  heather — nothing  has  given  me  more  satisfying,  lasting  pleasure  than 
your  books. 

* I cannot  write  what  I mean.  When  I write  it,  it  turns  itself  upside 
down  and  pretends  to  be  something  else.  But  Joseph  Vance  would 
understand,  and  you  are  Joseph,  aren’t  you  ? Tell  me,  have  you  a dear 
Lossie  all  of  your  own  ? Have  you  known  Sallies  and  Janies  and  Alice- 
for-Shorts  ? One  cannot  pick  one’s  friends.  I mean  there  are  only  the 
people  around  us,  a limited  circle  ; and  the  only  other  choice  given  us  is 
to  not  make  friends  at  all.  I have  friends  : precious  treasures  belonging 
to  glad  days  and  sad  days  of  my  girlhood  : but  they  are  not  beside  me. 
I see  them  seldom  and  your  books  provide  me  with  friends  that  come  just 
exactly  when  I want  them.  No  other  books  have  quite  done  this  before. 
Joseph  and  Sally  never  shirk  problems  that  I put  before  them  nor  fade 
unsatisfactorily  into  nothing  when  I most  need  their  help  and  their  philo- 
sophy. 

‘ For  all  the  joy  that  has  come  to  me  and  will  come  to  me  still  from 
your  hands,  I wish  to  say  “ Thank  you,”  dear  Joseph  Vance.  If  one  day 
when  the  sun  does  not  shine  or  some  one  has  hurt  you  perhaps,  or  for  some 
other  reason,  your  thoughts  are  less  glad  than  usual,  it  may  make  you 
happy  to  remember  what  I have  tried  to  say  in  this  letter.  It  would 
please  me  to  think  that  I could  give  you  any  fraction  of  the  pleasure  you 
have  given  me. 

* Very  gratefully  yours, 

* m.  w.* 

A Stranger  to  William  De  Morgan . 

4 Edinburgh. 

* Dear  Author  of  Somehow  Good, — If  you  only  knew  what  delight 
you  have  given  a little  Minister’s  wife  who  has  the  cares  of  the  Minister 
and  dozens  of  children  on  her  mind  and  body  ! 

‘ I wish  I could  make  you  know  what  a beautiful  rest  you  can  give 
tired  souls,  tired  sometimes  almost  to  extinction  and  want  of  hope.  Sally 
came  as  the  greatest  treat  with  her  charming  child-of-Natureness,  her 
irrepressibility,  and  joy  of  life  ; and  all  her  train.  It  was  with  a feeling 
of  loss  I closed  her  book.  But  I have  a treat  in  store  for  me.  You  may 
well  envy  me  for  I have  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Joseph  Vance  and 
Alice- for -Short  yet  ! And  somehow  or  other  I must  make  them  mine. 
The  cares  that  beset  the  mother  of  dozens  as  to  the  dressing  and  finding 
the  footgear  wherewithal  to  present  them  faultless  before  the  Congregation 
(of  elders’  wives,  say),  and  finding  the  variety  of  wholesome  food  the  soul 
of  healthy  children  loveth  (which  latter  almost  persuades  me  to  fill  them 
with  the  husks  the  Simpler  Food  Society  provides)  makes  the  falling  astray 
into  the  charmed  realms  of  your  beautiful  works  very,  very  delightful, 
if  sinful  ! There — I’ve  written  a page  and  a half  of  nonsense  which  you 
may  never  bother  finishing,  but  still  from  the  heart  of 

* A lover  (and  admirer)  of, 

‘ Sally.* 


3°5 


* ALICE  ’ AND  ‘SALLY’ 

One  more  letter  requires  a brief  explanation. 

Far  away  in  a city  in  America  a little  man  lay  dying  under 
melancholy  circumstances.  He  had  led,  apparently,  a most 
useful  life  ; he  had  devoted  his  entire  existence  to  the  promotion 
of  local  charities  and  philanthropic  organizations  ; he  had  written 
books  to  aid  his  humanitarian  schemes  ; and  now  all  this  mental 
and  physical  activity  was  suddenly  brought  to  a close,  and  the 
great  Tragedy  had  come  upon  him  in  ironical  guise.  The  ex- 
traction of  an  aching  tooth  by  a dentist,  for  which  cocaine  had 
been  employed,  produced  poisoning ; paralysis  ensued,  and  the 
end  was  a foregone  conclusion. 

Then  as  he  lay  waiting  for  the  slow  coming  of  Death,  during 
the  long  hours  of  that  invalid  existence  which  contrasted  cruelly 
with  his  former  happy  activity,  he  read  Joseph  Vance  ; and  it 
seemed  to  him  as  though,  groping  in  a great  darkness,  he  had 
suddenly  clasped  the  hand  of  a friend.  So  powerful  an  impres- 
sion did  the  book  make  on  him,  that  he  subsequently  kept  it 
always  by  his  bedside,  and  he  became  filled  with  an  intense 
longing,  before  he  passed  to  the  great  Beyond,  to  have  one 
personal  communication  from  the  author,  that  friend  many 
thousand  miles  away,  who  had  soothed  his  mental  and  physical 
anguish.  So  his  relations  wrote  privately  to  De  Morgan,  to  beg 
the  latter  to  gratify  the  whim  of  the  invalid  ; and  De  Morgan 
who,  however  great  his  weariness  after  long  days  of  ceaseless 
penmanship,  never  failed  to  respond  to  every  correspondent, 
wrote  with  a great  tenderness  to  the  unknown  man  who  was 
passing  so  sadly  through  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow. 

By  and  by  the  answer  came. 

‘ 1908. 

* My  dear  Mr.  De  Morgan, — 

‘ Your  friend  died  last  evening.  He  had  become  blind  and  quite 
helpless,  and  I am  sure  that  he  was  a very  happy  little  man  when  he  moved 
up  somewhere  else. 

‘ He  loved  " Alice  ” and  “ Sally  ” ; but  “ Joseph  ” remained  his 
helper  and  companion. 

‘ His  nurse  writes  me  that  she  read  Joseph  Vance  through  to  him  from 
cover  to  cover  at  least  six  times  and  “ often  he  called  for  certain  passages 
as  Puritans  called  for  verses  from  the  Bible.” 

* Your  letter  he  sent  me  to  read  and  said  “ Please  return  it  at  once 
because  I may  die  so  soon,  and  I want  to  read  it  again  before  I go.”  I 
thank  you  for  your  goodness  to  him.’ 

Thus  it  was  that  while  De  Morgan’s  books  sped  to  different 
parts  of  the  globe,  their  readers  wrote  to  him — not  conven- 
tional words  of  fulsome  praise  such  as  many  authors  receive, 
but  letters  written  from  heart  to  heart — letters  from  lonely 
people  who  had  found  a friend,  weary  people  who  had  found 
rest  and  refreshment,  letters  from  old  and  young,  clever  and 
simple,  from  the  sick,  the  maimed,  the  dying,  all  confident 

u 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


306 

of  sympathy  and  of  that  tender  comprehension  which  they  had 
found  in  his  published  words—*  that  personality,’  wrote  one, 
* which  is  all  in  all  in  the  De  Morgan  novels.’  By  and  by, 
De  Morgan  had  a special  receptacle  made  for  this  correspon- 
dence, for  in  its  great  mass,  with  the  strange  and  often  pathetic 
stories  which  it  suggested,  it  formed  a human  document  such 
as  it  has  been  the  lot  of  few  men — if  any — to  receive. 

But  occasionally  among  the  letters  dealing  with  his  new 
profession,  came  some  which  seemed  like  a breath  from  a far-away 
past. 

‘ Will  it  interest  you  [asks  a correspondent  from  Georgeville  at  the 
close  of  a long  letter]  to  know  that  I asked  a very  clever  and  delightful 
man  in  Cuba  if  he  had  ever  read  Joseph  Vance,  and  he  said,  “ Read  it ! — 
Why,  I’ve  read  Joseph  Vance  nine  times,  and  Alice J 'or -Short  eight  ! ” 

‘ And  now  I have  something  more  to  thank  you  for,  since  a friend  has 
sent  me  a bowl  of  the  colour  of  old  wine  full  of  iridescent  hues,  a perfect 
delight  to  my  eyes,  and  I hear  that  it  was  made  under  your  guidance. 
You  do  not  know  how  its  colour  glows  in  this  little  cottage  way  up  in  the 
mountains  in  Canada,  nor  what  a pleasure  and  joy  it  is  to  all  who  see  it. 

‘ Altogether  I couldn’t  help  writing  to  you,  could  I ? and  I do  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart.’ 

John  Ward  1 to  William  De  Morgan. 

* The  Mount, 

‘ Farningham,  Kent. 

' 5th  April,  1908. 

* Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan, — 

* I am  much  interested  with  your  Pamphlet  on  Pottery  for  Egyptian 
Clays,  albeit  that  I am  an  ignoramus  in  such  matters — and  your  scientific 
lore  on  practical  potter’s  work  was  beyond  my  wits  to  grasp. 

* Often  have  I gazed  at  Egyptian  potters’  work  at  Keneh  and  else- 
where, and  admired  their  use  of  their  fingers  and  toes,  and  wondered  at 
the  really  pretty  forms  they  produced  as  if  by  magic,  rising  out  of  a lump 
of  clay  into  elegant  shapes  of  a perfect  symmetry. 

‘ In  Spain  I once  travelled  with  Henry  Doulton  of  Lambeth,  and 
James  Anderson  Rose  (the  latter  was  the  man  who  made  Doulton  add  a 
6ort  of  Artistic  refinement  to  the  cult  of  making  drain-pipes — in  the 
manufacture  of  which  humble  but  essential  aids  to  civilization  Doulton 
had  made  a large  fortune). 

* We  came  to  a remote  pottery,  somewhere  in  Andalusia,  and  found  a 
nice-looking  ancient  gentleman  “ throwing  ” vases  and  pots  of  excellent 
form,  on  a very  primitive  wheel.  We  got  into  conversation  with  the 
artist,  and  when  Doulton  complimented  him  on  the  speed  of  the  hori- 
zontal wheel,  and  told  him  he  had  worked  a similar  wheel  when  he  was  a 
boy,  the  old  gentleman  said,  “ If  you  ever  learned  to  throw  a wheel  properly 
you  can  never  forget  it — try  again  ! ” So  dear  old  Doulton  took  ofE  his 
coat,  took  his  seat  at  the  bench,  and  made  pots  equal  to  the  native — much 
to  his  and  our  delight. 

* He  told  us  that  his  father,  who  had  started  the  great  Lambeth  pottery- 
in  the  early  years  of  the  last  century,  made  him  work  at  the  trade  for 
seven  years,  as  a practical  potter,  and  so  he  learnt  so  much,  that  he  died 
a millionaire  with  a title. 


1 John  Ward,  F.S.A.,  Author  of  Pyramids  and  Progress. 


• ALICE  ' AND  ‘ SALLY  * 307 

* I don’t  know  if  you  ever  met  Doulton  ; he  was  an  excellent  fellow, 
and  our  companion  to  most  cities  in  Europe  on  our  Eastern  trips  of  many 
years.  We  visited  Florence,  Venice,  Bologna,  Genoa,  Turin,  Milan,  etc., 
etc.,  and  I formed  the  taste  for  travel  and  art  that  led  me  afterwards  to 
every  city  in  Europe  (almost)  and  afterwards  to  Egypt  and  Greece  and 
Turkey. 

‘ Now  the  work  of  the  Potter  in  all  ages  is  the  means  of  determining  the 
age  and  date  of  cities  and  settlements  back  to  prehistoric  days,  and  I read 
yesterday  in  a lecture  in  the  Times  by  Professor  Dunn,  on  Biblical  Palestine, 
that  nine  strata  of  as  many  different  cities,  super-imposed  one  upon  the 
other,  had  been  explained  and  dated  by  the  evidence  of  their  pot-sherds. 

* Your  old  trade  was  a wonderfully  old  art,  and  must  have  fascinated 
you,  and  then  what  glorious  tiles  you  made  ! 

‘ Your  new  trade  is  fascinating  for  you  and  for  the  public — 1,000  for 
every  one  who  appreciated  the  tiles.  But  I am  glad  that  you  produced 
the  glorious  tiles  when  you  were  young  ! 

* Yours  sincerely, 

‘ John  Ward.’ 

* I don’t  believe/  De  Morgan  said  once,  when  asked  about 
the  possible  reproduction  of  a series  of  his  former  designs  for 
pottery,  ‘ that  those  tiles  could  be  reproduced  except  the  moment 
of  the  world  when  they  were  made  could  come  back.  So  of 
all  work  where  the  thread  is  lost — with  the  added  need  often 
(as  in  this  case)  of  bringing  back  a giant  from  extinction,  if 
extinct,  or  from  the  job  he’s  on,  if  any  ! ’ 

Yet  so  late  as  1914  he  was  still  looking  back  on  that  van- 
ished career  with  a haunting  regret.  ‘ I wonder/  he  wrote 
to  Mr.  Marillier  at  that  date,  ' whether  a centenarian  twenty- 
eight  years  hence  will  squander  his  book- royal  ties  on  the  erection 
of  new  kilns,  with  superannuated  dodderers  to  pack  and  fire 
them  ? If  I were  personally  in  England  1 should  do  that  very 
selfsame  thing.  I can’t  tell  you  how  I miss  never  having  a kiln 
to  open  next  day  ! ’ 


CHAPTER  XIII 


THE  REAL  JANEY 


S De  Morgan  gradually  drifted  into  the  new  routine  entailed 


by  his  change  of  profession,  he  systematically  referred 
all  that  he  wrote  to  his  wife  ; and  he  often  stated  that  he  never 
began  any  story  till  she  had  given  him  the  keynote  in  an  open- 
ing sentence.  Every  Sunday  he  read  aloud  to  her  what  he 
had  written  during  the  week ; and  when  a book  was  entirely 
finished,  he  read  it  to  her  again  from  cover  to  cover  to  ascer- 
tain whether  the  narrative  ran  satisfactorily  as  a whole.  With 
her  fine  intellect,  her  scholarly  training,  and  her  rich  imagina- 
tion, she  was  an  excellent  critic  ; and  as  she  had  been  the  main- 
spring of  his  inspiration,  so  hers  remained  the  final  verdict 
against  which,  in  his  view,  there  was  no  appeal.  To  her  alone 
it  was  due  that  he  did  not  actually  destroy  certain  of  his  books 
through  a mistaken  impression  of  their  futility ; or  eliminate 
much  delightful  by-play  through  a too-amiable  desire  to  pander 
to  the  views  of  printers  and  librarians. 

‘ But  the  worst  is/  he  complained  to  Sir  William  Richmond, 
* she  will  fall  asleep  at  the  crucial  passages,  and  then  when  she 
wakes  up  swear  she  hasn’t  missed  anything  at  all,  and  that 
it  all  fits  in  perfectly  ! ’ ‘ He  always,’  added  Sir  William,  ‘ referred 
to  her  as  “ She,”  and  spoke  of  her  with  a mingled  pride  and 
reverence  which  was  infinitely  touching/  The  mysterious 
dedication  of  Somehow  Good  ‘ To  M.D.W.  from  Wr.D.M/  was 
his  dedication  ‘ To  My  Dear  Wife.’ 

‘ The  first  tiling  which  I look  for  in  every  review/  he  admitted 
once,  after  the  publication  of  Joseph  Vance,  ‘ is  the  evalua- 
tion— if  any — of  Lossie  and  Janey  ’ ; and  although  there  exists 
no  manner  of  resemblance,  as  portrayed  by  his  pen,  between 
the  homely,  placid  Janey  and  the  brilliant  personality  of  his 
own  wife,  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  bonded  sympathy,  too 
delicate  and  too  deep  for  any  laboured  insistence,  which  he 
makes  one  feel  so  powerfully  existent  between  Joey  and  Janey 
was,  in  all  its  completeness,  a personal  experience. 

There  was,  moreover,  one  little  romantic  incident  consequent 
upon  his  sudden  literary  success  which  was  especially  charac- 


308 


The  Sleeping  Earth  and  Wakening  Moon 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  pinxit  < 

[In  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Stirling. 


THE  REAL  JANEY  309 

teristic  of  both  himself  and  his  wife.  At  the  time  of  his  en- 
gagement, owing  to  the  state  of  his  finances,  he  had,  at  Evelyn’s 
especial  request,  never  given  her  an  engagement  ring ; and 
now  that  those  finances  had  improved,  the  first  thought  that 
occurred  to  the  lover  and  husband  of  twenty  years  was  that 
she  should  have  the  belated  gift.  He  therefore  hunted  about 
for  a considerable  time  to  find  some  stone  which  should  fulfil 
his  ideal  of  flawless  beauty ; and  at  length,  in  Italy,  he  found 
a fine  sapphire  set  round  with  diamonds — a gem  of  rare  trans- 
lucent colour. 

' I have  at  last  found  what  I have  been  looking  for ! ’ he 
announced  joyfully  to  the  old  Florentine  from  whom  he  purchased 
it,  and  the  latter  amused  him  by  the  mysterious  rejoinder:— 

‘ You  are  buying  more  than  you  know,  Signor.  This  is 
no  ordinary  stone.  It  has  magic  in  it  as  well  as  beauty,  and  if 
given  as  a token  between  those  who  love,  it  will  never  pass  to 
another.’ 

' It  sounds  just  as  if  I were  a bit  of  a fairy-tale ! ’ said  De 
Morgan  to  his  wife;  but  there  were  those  who,  having  learnt 
the  remark  of  the  mystic  Florentine,  found  cause  to  recall  it 
later. 

One  result  of  De  Morgan’s  success  in  his  new  profession,  how- 
ever, was  to  deepen  a nascent  aversion  on  Evelyn’s  part  to  ex- 
hibiting her  work.  Throughout  her  girlhood,  as  we  have  seen, 
and  throughout  the  years  when  the  expense  of  the  factory 
had  been  a constant  drain  upon  her  resources,  the  sale  of  her 
pictures  had  been  a necessity.  Now  came  a breathing  space  in 
that  arduous  labour,  so  that  she  was  able  to  cast  her  eyes  on 
the  world  around  and  to  see  the  change  which  had  stolen  over 
the  spirit  of  Art.  She  visited  the  exhibitions  of  Cubist  and 
Futurist  painters,  and  gazed  with  frank  bewilderment  at  the 
vagaries  of  those  new  exponents  of  Idealism.  She  heard  the 
ignorant  praising  the  impudent,  the  trickster  triumphing  where 
sincerity  had  failed ; and  her  comment  was  reticent : ‘ I am 
reminded,’  she  said,  ' of  Hans  Andersen’s  story  of  the  Emperor’s 
new  clothes ! ’ Meanwhile  De  Morgan,  writing  of  this  later 
development  of  what  he  had  nicknamed  the  * Boshite  ’ of  his 
youth,  remarked : — 

' Every  one  knows  that  unless  he  praises  what  other  people  think 
rubbish,  they  won’t  credit  him  with  a higher  form  of  knowledge  than 
their  own,  and  that’s  the  sort  of  fame  that  bounce  grows  fat  upon  ! * 

One  conclusion,  however,  Evelyn  De  Morgan  arrived  at : 
* If  that  is  what  people  like  now,’  she  said  briefly,  * I shall  wait 
till  the  turn  of  the  tide.’  So  she  continued  to  paint  with  un- 
abated energy,  but  when  a picture  was  completed,  she  placed 
it  against  the  wall,  and  seldom  even  troubled  to  have  the  glass 


3io  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

dusted.  Each  successive  painting  was  thus  set  aside  to  be 
forgotten ; and  another  promptly  begun.  Work  and  the 
necessity  for  self-expression  sufficed. 

During  the  years  which  followed,  there  flowed  from  her  brush 
many  lovely  fantasies  of  which  only  a few  can  be  referred  to 
here. 

Of  those  reproduced  in  this  volume,  ‘The  Garden  of  Oppor- 
tunity ’ is  a picture  singularly  rich  in  decorative  effect  and  wealth 
of  detail,  so  that  it  presents  something  of  the  appearance  of 
a piece  of  old-world  tapestry  in  which  the  colours  have  been 
miraculously  preserved.  In  a fair  landscape  are  seen  two 
mediaeval  Italian  students  clad  in  beflowered  garments  of 
mauve  and  rose.  They  are  turning  away  from  Wisdom  who, 
yellow-robed  and  full  of  a sorrowful  grace,  is  standing  beside  a 
sculptured  seat  of  ruddy  porphyry ; they  are  pursuing  Folly 
— a lovely  little  figure  who  seems  to  have  drifted  down  the 
Ages  from  the  brush  of  Botticelli.  So  light  and  airy  is  her 
poise  that  she  looks  as  though  she  would  dance  out  of  the  pic- 
ture ; her  robe  is  fashioned  of  pearly  scales  with  a fluttering 
mantle  of  sapphire ; and  she  is  holding  out  to  her  dupes  entic- 
ingly a silver  ball  of  which  the  reverse  side,  hidden  from  their 
vision,  is  a skull.  In  the  distance,  tinted  pink  and  ochre  in 
the  sunset,  are  buildings — water-mills  and  a Fairy  Castle  over 
which  the  moon  is  rising ; while  round  the  comer  of  the  road- 
way is  peeping  a little  devil  who  lends  a note  of  humour  to 
the  situation,  in  that  he  is  conspicuous  for  what  the  painter 
used  to  term  his  * De  Morgan  forehead,’  as  well  as  for  the 
impish  glee  with  which  he  is  watching  the  on-coming  of  the 
errant  youths. 

Of  a different  type  is  the  picture  of  ‘ Helen  of  Troy.’  A single 
figure  of  radiant  beauty,  she  is  toying  with  her  golden  hair  and 
gazing,  enthralled  by  her  own  loveliness,  in  the  mirror  of  Venus. 
Her  robe  is  bright  pink,  while  at  her  feet  blossom  white  roses, 
and  about  her  circle  snow-white  doves,  dazzling  in  their  purity 
against  the  background  of  sunlit  landscape  and  azure  sea. 
In  the  distance  the  fated  towers  of  Ilium  show,  clear-cut  against 
a translucent  sky.  A companion  picture  of  ‘Cassandra’  repre- 
sents the  prophetess,  clad  in  blue  with  blood-red  roses  at  her  feet, 
her  wild,  mad  beauty  outlined  against  a background  of  Troy 
in  flames. 

In  * The  Valley  of  Shadows  ’ the  Riddle  of  Life  is  depicted. 
A King,  in  a robe  of  gold,  is  standing  in  front  of  his  crumbling 
Palace,  while  his  foot  still  rests  upon  the  neck  of  a lovely  slave. 
Fame  is  wandering  blind-fold  down  the  Valley,  dropping  her 
favours  erratically  as  she  moves.  Opposite,  into  the  blue  and 
pawning  Caverns  of  Death,  a victim,  in  the  pride  of  his  man- 
hood, is  about  to  take  the  fatal  plunge.  In  the  centre,  in  draperies 


The  Garden  of  Opportunity 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  pinxit 


/ 


THE  REAL  JANEY  311 

of  crimson  and  white,  a nun-like  figure  is  raising  impassioned 
hands  to  the  deaf  heavens  where,  dim  and  intangible,  there 
floats  the  vision  of  an  angelic  form. 

The  larg^  picture  of  ‘ Saint  Christina  giving  away  her  Father’s 
Jewels  to  the  Poor  * (12  ft.  by  7 J ft.)  is  an  ambitious  conception, 
the  grouping  and  the  composition  of  which  is  very  striking. 
The  pale,  ethereal  saint,  clad  in  white  with  a cincture  of  red, 
is  standing  on  the  steps  of  her  pagan  father’s  Venetian  Palace. 
In  accordance  with  the  legend  respecting  her,  she  is  distribut- 
ing to  the  poor  jewels  from  the  idols  she  has  broken.  Angels 
in  a long  procession  and  in  lovely  draperies  are  descending  the 
wide  stairway  behind  her  to  aid  her  in  despoiling  the  treasures 
of  the  Palace.  In  the  foreground  the  picturesque  Italian  beggars 
are  thronging  in  their  boats  to  the  marble  steps — the  blind, 
the  avaricious,  the  wretched — beautiful  despite  their  misery, 
their  drapery  falling  into  graceful  folds,  greed  or  tragedy  ex- 
pressed in  their  fine  and  eager  faces  ; while  one  almost  seems 
to  hear  the  splash  of  their  boats  passing  through  the  blue  waters 
and  the  ripples  ceaselessly  lapping  the  cool,  pale  marble. 

' Queen  Eleanor  and  Fair  Rosamund/  a comparatively  small 
canvas,  is  arresting  alike  for  its  delicate  imagination  and  dex- 
terous handling.  The  mediaeval  atmosphere  is  again  indicated 
in  the  decorative  effect  of  the  interior  depicted.  The  ancient 
yew  hedge  of  the  mysterious  labyrinth  is  seen  through  the 
open  doorway ; an  oaken  seat,  finely  carved,  is  conspicuous 
in  the  foreground ; a deeply  recessed  window  of  glowing  glass 
shows  above  the  frightened  face  of  Fair  Rosamund.  And  the 
two  women  who  figure  in  this  setting,  Eleanor  and  her  victim, 
are  both  clad  in  robes  so  exquisite  in  hue  that  these  seem  to 
shimmer  into  different  shades  while  one  strives  to  define  the 
dominant  colour  in  each  ; moreover  the  draperies  of  both  are 
sown  with  pearls,  each  tiny  pattern  representing  a different 
study  in  perspective.  But  a sinister  note  is  struck  by  the 
evil  emanations  which  exhale  from  Eleanor ; shadowy,  snaky 
forms  and  ape-like  faces,  transparent  but  foul,  enter  with  her ; 
and  before  their  horrid  presence  the  pitiful  little  Loves  who  had 
hovered  about  Rosamund,  weeping  and  terrified,  flutter  away 
amid  the  drifting  roses  of  a fragrant  Past. 

Other  pictures  cling  to  the  remembrance  of  those  who  have 
seen  them  : The  lovely  ‘ Daughters  of  the  Mist  ’ who  linger  near 
a mountain  chasm  while  the  first  rays  of  sunrise  dye  their  filmy 
robes  to  a tender  rose  ; 'The  Sleeping  Earth  and  Wakening 
Moon,’  the  latter  enshrined  in  a transparent  globe  while  her  shin- 
ing locks  trail  away  into  golden  cloud ; Boreas,  a weird  Blake- 
like  figure  fiercely  dispersing  the  naked,  fallen  leaves  ; or  ‘ The 
Worship  of  Mammon  ’ which  recalls  the  imagery  of  G.  F.  Watts, 
and  which,  like  'The  Daughters  of  the  Mist,’  presents  a remark- 


312  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

able  study  in  drapery.  Against  a background  of  star-studded 
sky,  deep  with  the  sombre  blue  of  a Southern  night,  two  figures 
show  in  bold  relief.  One  is  a woman  in  whose  keen  face  hunger, 
covetousness  and  despair  are  expressed,  as  she  clings  in  frantic 
supplication  to  the  knees  of  a giant  Form  which  tower9  above 
her.  And  Mammon  sits  there  enthroned,  a figure  of  brass, 
whose  face  and  shape,  half-revealed,  accentuate  the  mystery 
which  enshrouds  him  : a Presence  suggestive  of  relentless  force, 
of  limitless  power,  of  implacable  cruelty,  and  of  torturing  pro- 
vocation as  he  holds  at  arm’s  length  the  well-filled  money- 
bag, for  ever  out  of  the  reach  of  the  unhappy  wretch  who  craves 
it.  Wholly  different  in  atmosphere,  though  poignant  in  pathos, 
is  'The  Poor  Man  who  Saved  the  City.’  A lonely,  attractive 
figure  with  a wise,  sad  face,  he  is  seated  among  the  brambles  by 
the  city  wall,  where  he  meditates  in  solitude,  while  the  people  he 
has  saved  and  the  great  ones  of  the  land  go,  with  banner  and 
trumpet  and  public  rejoicing,  to  celebrate  all  that  has  been 
brought  to  pass  by  the  wisdom  of  the  man  they  have  so  quickly 
forgotten.  . . . 

Others  there  are,  too  numerous  to  mention,  which  cannot  be 
represented  here  even  in  the  reproductions  which,  robbed  of  their 
glowing  colours,  fail  to  convey  their  atmosphere  and  their  charm. 
Virile  and  strong,  delicate  and  subtle,  infinite  in  variety,  in 
poetry,  in  inspiration,  Evelyn’s  work  never  flagged  throughout 
the  passing  years  ; but  while  she  withdrew  more  and  more  from 
the  world,  living  in  that  dream-world  of  her  own  creation  and 
in  her  selfless  devotion  to  that  other  life  which  ran  side  by  side 
with  her  own,  her  husband,  as  success  came  to  him,  facetiously 
remarked  the  volte-face  in  their  respective  positions : * Formerly 
it  used  to  be  Mrs.  De  Morgan  and  her  husband,  now  it  is  Mr. 
De  Morgan  and  his  wife  ! ’ Of  all  which  he  owed  to  her,  how- 
ever, he  was  profoundly  aware  ; and  once  when  some  one  was 
talking  in  enthusiastic  terms  of  his  genius,  he  cut  short  the 
panegyric  gently  by  pointing  to  the  * real  Janey  * : — 

‘ There  is  the  genius,’  he  said. 


The  Poor  Man  who  Saved  the  City 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  pinxit 

“ There  was  a little  City,  and  a few  men  within  it ; and  there  came  a great  king 
against  it,  and  besieged  it,  and  built  great  bulwarks  against  it.  Now  there  was 
found  in  it  a poor  wise  man,  and  he  by  his  wisdom  delivered  the  City  ; yet  no  man 
remembered  that  same  poor  man. 

“ Then  said  I.  Wisdom  is  better  than  strength : nevertheless  the  poor  man's 
wisdom  is  despised.” — Ecclesiastes. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


' BLIND  JIM  ' AND  4 LUCINDA  * 

1907-1909 

THROUGHOUT  this  period,  the  perpetual  contrast  between 
his  present  celebrity  and  his  previous  failure  gave  De 
Morgan  a happy,  harmless  gratification.  4 1 am  glad  you  like 
my  books,’  he  wrote  to  one  correspondent.  ‘ I am  puzzled  at 
my  relation  to  them  ! and  very  much  surprised  at  their  success. 
It's  a funny  story  altogether  ! * He  was  like  a child  with  a 
new  toy ; the  novelty  of  his  experience  delighted  and  amused 
him,  while  leaving  the  inherent  simplicity  of  his  character  un- 
touched. The  mere  fact  of  being  lionized — the  letters  which 
continued  to  pour  in  from  all  parts  of  the  world  ; the  adulation 
of  his  especial  public  ; the  eulogies  of  the  Press  ; even  the  social 
functions  to  which  he  was  incessantly  bidden,  were  to  him  all 
part  of  a splendid  adventure  which  had  overtaken  him  un- 
awares : ‘ the  last  of  Life  for  which  the  first  was  made.’  ' His 
literary  career  was  the  happiest  time  of  his  life,’  his  wife  wrote  later. 
‘ It  was  roses,  roses  all  the  way/  And  when,  on  rare  occasions, 
the  experience  was  momentarily  reversed  and  a jarring  note 
warred  with  his  contentment,  he  accepted  this  with  the  same 
air  of  deep,  but  detached,  interest  which  he  might  have  devoted 
to  some  impersonal  phenomenon.  . . . ‘ His  frank  amusement 
over  adverse  reviews,’  remarked  an  interviewer  with  apprecia- 
tion, ' might  be  a trifle  disconcerting  to  those  who  have  some- 
times attacked  him  with  a rancour  very  clearly  born  of  jealousy. 
. . . He  avows  openly  that  he  writes  to  please  himself,  and  listens 
with  an  amused  smile  to  any  protest  against  his  being  as  “ his- 
torical,” or  as  prolix  and  discursive  as  he  chooses  ! ’ 

Nevertheless  it  was  a constant  source  of  surprised  satisfac- 
tion to  him  that  the  pecuniary  anxiety  of  his  artistic  career 
was  now  at  an  end,  and  that  a steady  flow  of  money  continued 
to  pour  in  from  the  royalties  on  his  books.  ‘ I feel  like  Croesus  ! ’ 
he  said  with  a suggestion  of  bewilderment.  Yet  when  some 
friend  asked  him  what  was  the  nature  of  his  contract  with 
Heinemann  he  responded  contentedly,  ‘ I never  really  worry 
about  contracts.  When  I want  some  money,  I j ust  write  to  Heine- 

312 


314  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

mann  for  £1,000  and  he  sends  me  a cheque,  and  when  that  is 
gone,  I write  for  another.  It’s  much  simpler  ! ’ Though  this 
must  not  be  taken  too  literally,  all  his  correspondence  on  mone- 
tary matters  connected  with  his  literary  work  is  distinctly 
naive. 

‘ You  mentioned  ’ [he  writes  to  Heinemann  in  one  letter]  4 that  I might 
apply  to  you  for  an  advance,  but  we  didn’t  name  any  amount,  and  I feel 
a little  puzzled  when  I try  to  make  up  my  mind  how  much  to  ask  for. 
Would  you  solve  the  problem  for  me  by  sending  me  whatever  sum  you 
think  the  circumstances  warrant,  at  any  such  time  as  you  may  find  to 
be  convenient  to  you  ? ’ 

On  another  occasion  when  Heinemann  had  offered  him  some 
payment,  we  find  him  refusing  cheerfully : ‘ Thanks  be  to 

Gracious  Goodness,  I am  not  in  any  need  of  money  ! ’ Indeed, 
he  never  was  able  to  divest  himself  of  a conscientious  feeling 
that  he  was  taking  an  undue  advantage  of  his  publisher : ‘ I 
seem  to  myself  a lazy,  undeserving  chap  who  sits  in  a warm 
room  and  writes  twaddle,  and  then  gets  a lot  of  money  for  it  ! ’ 
Again  he  remarks  with  mild  astonishment,  ‘ Fancy  Statement- 
time having  come  round  once  more  ! I wonder  who  buys  these 
books — I suppose  the  world  is  an  uncommon  big  one  ! ' His 
unwonted  wealth  provided  him  with  a fruitful  subject  of  jest. 
Going  by  the  Underground  one  day,  he  flung  down  twopence 
with  a lordly  flourish  and  observed  with  hauteur , ‘ I’ve  grown 
so  rich  that  I just  slap  down  the  coppers  without  a thought ! ' 

Of  stories,  however,  illustrative  of  his  irresponsibility  in 
finance,  his  friends  had  endless  store.  On  one  occasion,  after 
being  urged  to  consult  a stockbroker  respecting  some  depre- 
ciating security,  he  replied  sapiently,  ‘ I don’t  believe  in  those 
chaps — stockbrokers.  They  are  dangerous.  My  idea  is — if 
you  have  money  in  an  investment,  keep  it  there.  To  alter  an 
investment  seems  to  me  something  like  tampering  with  the 
Constitution  of  the  British  Empire.’  This  attitude  was  emulated 
by  his  wife.  ‘ I have  never,’  she  once  remarked  cheerfully, 
‘ looked  at  my  pass-book  since  I married — I was  so  afraid  of 
finding  there  was  nothing  there  ! ’ She,  however,  was  admittedly 
more  practical  than  he  was  ; indeed,  it  was  only  through  her 
disinterested  conduct  in  the  past  that  she  had  ever  known  the 
stress  of  any  financial  crisis. 

But  while  De  Morgan’s  third  novel  was  outselling  the  pre- 
vious ones,  and  while  he  was,  as  he  described,  * close  at  it,  scrib- 
bling, scribbling  interminably,’  there  came  a day  which  marked 
the  close  of  an  epoch  in  his  life  and  that  of  his  wife. 

On  August  2,  1908,  Spencer-Stanhope  finished  a picture  on 
which  he  had  been  working  for  some  time,  with  the  remark 
that  now  he  intended  to  have  a long  rest.  That  night  he  slept 
peacefully,  and  when  morning  dawned  they  found  that  he  had 


•BLIND  JIM  ' AND  * LUCINDA ’ 315 

entered  upon  a rest  which  could  not  be  broken.  ' How  glad 
I should  be/  wrote  De  Morgan,  * to  go  across  to  the  other  side 
in  the  same  way — write  (as  it  is  writing  now)  up  to  the  last 
hour  or  day,  and  then  get  away  as  happily  from  this  painful 
flesh — and  leave  as  good  a memory  behind  as  may  be,  though 
few  of  us  may  succeed  in  leaving  as  good  a one  as  his — and  so 
many  to  treasure  it/ 

This  loss  meant  that  Florence — now  the  home  of  so  many 
years — could  never  be  the  same  again  to  De  Morgan  and  his 
wife,  even  though,  for  a time,  Mrs.  Stanhope  continued  to  live 
on  at  the  Villa  which  her  husband  had  beautified,  and  a semblance 
of  the  old  life  continued.  Moreover,  during  the  spring  of  1909, 
as  De  Morgan  was  wearily  trying  to  complete  a book  which  he 
referred  to  as  ' a terrifying  MS./  a serious  interruption  to  his 
work  occurred  in  a succession  of  earthquakes,  which  further 
served  to  lessen  his  attachment  to  his  Florentine  home. 

Evelyn  De  Morgan  to  Mrs . William  Morris. 

* Jan.  17th,  1909. 

' How  kind  of  you  to  write ! Yes,  we  are  both  all  right,  but  nervous 
after  our  earthquake,  it  was  a sharp  shock,  and  coming  on  the  top  of  the 
Messina  horrors  produced  a considerable  panic. 

* We  were  both  asleep,  but  the  noise  woke  me,  then  came  the  shaking 
and  swaying  of  the  room,  and  we  both  sprang  up  and  dressed  in  less  than 
five  minutes.  We  were  at  the  top  of  a very  high  house,  so  we  had  the  full 
benefit  of  the  shaking.  We  and  some  Russian  friends  spent  the  night 
partly  out  of  doors  and  partly  sitting  in  my  studio  (which  is  on  the  ground 
floor),  with  all  the  doors  open,  fearing  another  shock  that  might  bring 
the  house  down.  Some  people  slept  through  it,  but  a great  many  turned 
out  and  spent  the  night  in  the  streets.  No  harm  was  done,  but  at  Bologna 
the  Palazzo  Publico  was  injured,  and  a lady  died  of  fright.  It  has  not 
done  my  nerves  any  good,  and  we  tremble  if  a door  bangs.  The  weather 
is  lovely,  but  the  gloom  of  Messina  hangs  over  everything,  and  one  can 
think  of  nothing  else.’ 

‘ My  work/  De  Morgan  wrote  to  Heinemann,  ‘ has  flagged 
terribly  in  the  last  fortnight.  You  have  no  idea  what  a strain 
on  the  nerves  this  sort  of  thing  becomes  when  one  lives  on  the 
4th  floor  of  a house  that,  a few  years  since,  had  to  be  tied  up 
after  an  earthquake ! And  there  have  been  slight  shocks  again 
recently.  ...  I am  very  ambiguous  about  everything  in  con- 
sequence ! After  the  solid  earth  has  once  jumped  under  one’s 
feet,  all  faith  in  being  undisturbed  three  seconds  hence  goes, 
and  you  can  as  little  go  on  writing  as  though  you  had  just  seen 
the  postman  on  the  doorstep  and  expected  him  to  knock ! ’ 

So  early  as  January  18,  1908,  De  Morgan  had  written  to 
Heinemann : — 

* As  to  what  I am  at  work  on,  I am  going  on  with  a story  which  is  not 
so  good  a story  as  Sally.  It  has  no  plot ; and  I have  not  at  present  the 
remotest  idea  how  it  will  turn  out.  Then  I have  only  got  to  64,000  words 


316  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

-—rather  like  Little  Billee  when  he’d  only  got  to  the  12th  Commandment— 
but  unlike  him  I can’t  cry  out,  “ Laud,  I see  ! ” — for  I don’t.’ 

Later  he  wrote  despondently  of  this  new  book,  which  he 
proposed  to  call  ‘ Blind  Jim/ 

* I’m  not  in  love  with  it  myself.  I have  written  at  this  moment  my 
237,000th  word.  About  31,000  of  this  since  I arrived  here,  but  I have 
only  had  about  30  working  days — so  much  interruption  at  first.  I’m 
going  very  slowly,  even  when  at  work.  My  impression  is  that  in  practice 
I go  at  the  rate  of  1,000  words  per  diem. 

* However,  I hope  this  and  the  revision  of  the  whole  will  run  con- 
currently with  a big  final  delay,  viz.  : the  needful  time  for  reading  it 
aloud  to  Mrs.  De  M.  She,  you  see,  is  a very  strong  character,  and  when 
she  wakes  up,  makes  me  read  all  through  again  from  her  last  recollection. 
But  this  final  read-through  is  a sine  qua  non  ; and  if  deferred  till  the  proofs, 
it  would  be  letting  a most  valuable  discrepancy-detective  loose  on  the 
work  just  a few  hours  too  late,  so  to  speak.  Also  this  reading  the  whole 
aloud  is  my  own  final  revision  ...  for  when  it  comes  to  plausible  print, 
I overlook  things. 

‘ I have  got  interested  in  the  wind-up — -and  She  also — emphatic- 
ally, which  is  satisfactory  ; so  I am  a good  deal  reconciled  to  it — think 
much  better  of  it  than  I did.  . . . Thanks  for  the  agreement.  I won’t 
sign  it  yet.  “ Blind  Jim’s  ” life  is  sufficiently  precarious  without  having 
a signed  agreement  to  kill  him  ! ’ 

‘ Unfortunately/  wrote  De  Morgan  to  a friend,  * Heinemann 
says  this  interminable  MS.  cannot  be  hung  over  till  the  autumn 
because  then  comes  his  Hall  Caine — who  follows  the  tradition 
of  his  ancestor  and  kills  his  brothers/  Meanwhile  the  title 
underwent  many  variations.  He  had  substituted  ‘ Sunless 
Jim  ’ for  the  name  first  chosen  ; afterwards  he  called  it  f The 
Rocket  Stick  * ; finally  he  decided  to  issue  it  under  the  attrac- 
tive name  of  It  Never  Can  Happen  Again.  Further,  at  his 
special  request,  Heinemann  consented  to  brave  the  boycott 
of  the  libraries  and  risk  its  publication  in  two  volumes  in  order 
to  ensure  better  print ; indeed,  the  whole  was  thus  recast  by 
him  after  it  had  already  been  printed  in  one. 

According  to  Heinemann’s  intention,  both  volumes  were 
to  have  as  a frontispiece  a picture  of  the  author ; the  first, 
a portrait  of  him  painted  by  his  wife  in  1893,  and  the 
second,  a more  mature  portrait  which  she  was  completing  at 
this  date. 

In  the  latter  picture,  De  Morgan  is  depicted  surrounded 
by  tokens  of  his  two  professions.  His  hands  are  clasping  a 
lovely  iridescent  pot,  one  of  the  last  he  made ; on  the  wall 
behind  him  shows  a beautiful  plate  of  his  own  designing ; and 
along  adjacent  shelves  stand  the  three  books  he  had  already 
published,  while  the  unbound  MS.  of  It  Never  Can  Happen  A. gain 
lies  conspicuously  upon  the  table  placed  beside  an  inkpot  and 
pen.  The  face  in  the  picture  was  a faithful  likeness,  save  only 
that  the  look  of  bright  animation  and  humour  which  was  habitual 


Portrait  of  William  De  Morgan  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan 
Painted  1909 

Bequeathed  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  to  the  National  Portrait  Gallery. 


i 


•BLIND  JIM’  AND  ‘ LUCINDA  * 317 

to  him  was  replaced  by  a most  pitiful  expression  of  weariness ; 
for  his  wife,  with  the  uncompromising  accuracy  for  which  her 
portraiture  was  remarkable,  had  caught  the  mood  of  the  moment 
and — much  to  his  subsequent  amusement — reproduced  un- 
erringly the  profound  boredom  which  he  was  experiencing 
while  having  to  sit  to  her  ! 

But  in  spite  of  Heinemann’s  representations,  both  the  victim 
and  his  tormentor  raised  characteristic  objections  to  the  publica- 
tion of  this  picture. 

William  De  Morgan  to  William  Heinemann. 

* The  portraits  are  not  my  property,  but  my  wife’s.  My  personal 
identity  (as  far  as  I retain  the  copyright)  is  at  the  disposal  of  any  arrange- 
ment you  and  she  are  agreed  about.  I shall  say  nothing  to  bias  her,  one 
way  or  t’other — but  to  you  I feel  bound  to  remark  that  two  portraits  in 
one  work  savours  a little  of  egotism,  and  will  make  a poor  bloke  (when 
he’s  me)  feel  ridiculous.’ 

Mrs.  De  Morgan  to  William  Heinemann . 

* Both  my  husband  and  myself  agree  that  what  with  the  volumes  in 
the  background,  and  the  pot  in  the  foreground,  to  say  nothing  of  inkpots, 
etc.,  it  is  far  too  bumptious  a thing  to  be  tolerated  and  too  self-advertising 
to  be  allowed  outside  the  family  circle  ; so  the  idea  must  be  given  up.’ 

‘ I should,’  wrote  De  Morgan  later,  * like  to  see  an  Author’s 
edition  announced  “ without  portrait  ” and  uncut — an  edition 
for  Early  Victorian  paper-knife  people  like  himself  ! ’ 

Meanwhile  De  Morgan  had  heard  from  Professor  Lyon 
Phelps  that,  in  1909,  the  Yale  University  Prize  for  excellence 
in  original  composition  was  to  be  awarded  for  the  best  Essay 
on  the  works  of  William  De  Morgan. 

William  De  Morgan  to  Professor  Lyon  Phelps. 

* Via  Lungo  il  Mugnone, 

‘ Florence. 

* It  took  me  some  minutes  after  receipt  of  your  kind  letter  and  enclosure 
to  grasp  the  full  extent  of  the  compliment  you  have  paid  me — it  has  taken 
me  a night’s  sleep  on  it  (I  got  it  yesterday)  to  consider  how  I can  express 
my  sense  of  it.  Well ! — I’ve  given  it  up  as  a bad  job.  I can’t  ! 

‘ For  really  the  selection  of  his  work  as  a subject  worthy  of  real  thought 
and  reflection  is  as  high  a compliment  as  can  be  paid  to  a recent  writer, 
whose  reputation  has  scarcely  had  time  to  acquire  equilibrium.  And 
from  no  source  could  it  be  more  flattering  to  its  recipient. 

‘ Will  you  add  to  my  indebtedness  ? When  the  prize  is  awarded, 
which  I suppose  will  not  be  before  the  summer,  it  would  be  an  immense 
pleasure  to  me  to  read  the  essay — you  print,  of  course  ? May  I look 
forward  hopefully  to  the  perusal  ? 

* It  has  been  a great  interest  to  me  to  go  carefully  through  the  “ List 
for  General  Readtng.”  What  a lot  I haven’t  read  ! — e.g.  it  reminds  me 
that  for  thirty-odd  years  I have  been  going  to  read  Burton’s  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy — and  have  never  done  it  ! 

‘ I must  read  Boh,  Son  of  Battle — quite  unheard  of  by  me  till  now.  I 
see  in  the  list  of  novels  I have  a century  to  myself,  so  far  1 ’ 


318  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

Professor  Lyon  Phelps  to  William  De  Morgan . 

* 16 th  Jan.,  1909. 

* Of  course  I shall  send  you  the  printed  Essay.  . . . 

* The  more  I think  over  your  books,  the  bigger  they  get  in  my  mind. 
Old  Vance’s  death-bed  joy  on  hearing  that  his  son  was  the  one  who  hit 
the  sweep,  and  the  allusion  to  the  Waldstein  Sonata,  and — hundreds  of 
other  things  are  simply  unforgettable.  The  first  chapter  of  Somehow 
Good  is  a permanent  contribution  to  Literature.’ 

De  Morgan’s  return  to  England  in  May,  1909,  involved  certain 
melancholy  conditions.  At  the  time  when  his  Florentine  home 
seemed  changed  in  essence,  the  home  in  London  where  he  and 
his  wife  had  lived  for  twenty-two  years  was  coming  to  an  end. 
The  sword  of  Damocles,  in  the  person  of  the  modern  jerry- 
builder,  had  long  hung  over  the  Vale,  and  soon  that  picturesque 
little  spot  was  to  be  a wilderness  of  bricks  and  mortar  repre- 
senting every  phase  of  destruction  and  reconstruction.  During 
their  absence  in  Italy,  indeed,  it  had  suffered  from  neglect.  A 
great  weed,  like  some  tropical  plant,  and  other  unchecked  vege- 
tation running  riot,  had  transformed  it  into  something  resem- 
bling the  Tale  of  the  Briar  Rose ; and  De  Morgan,  in  The  Old 
Man’s  Youth,  represents  his  hero,  Eustace  John,  thus  paying 
a final  visit  to  his  old  home  : — 

* The  last  time  I saw  the  place  . . . though  it  remained  then  an 
oasis  in  the  desert  of  bricks  and  mortar  that  grew  and  grew  throughout 
the  whole  of  our  occupancy,  the  signs  of  its  approaching  doom  were  upon 
it.  The  entrance  gateway  swung  helpless  on  one  hinge,  and  it  seemed  no 
one’s  business  to  repair  it.  The  lane  was  defiled  with  filth  and  discarded 
journalism,  and  the  trees  were  dead  or  dying.  The  gardens  remained, 
but  a weed  unfamiliar  to  me,  that  I never  knew  the  right  name  of,  overran 
them,  and  the  standard  rose-trees  were  things  of  the  past.  . . 

Nevertheless  De  Morgan,  in  conjunction  with  his  two  neigh- 
bours in  the  doomed  locality,  Mr.  Stirling-Lee,  the  sculptor, 
and  Professor  Oliver,  decided  to  give  what  he  termed  a ‘ house- 
cooling ’ in  contradistinction  to  the  usual  ‘ house-warming ’ of 
an  in-coming.  He  therefore  consulted  his  brother-in-law,  Mr. 
Stirling,  about  a suitable  motto  wherewith  to  embellish  the 
invitation  cards,  and  the  latter  suggested : ' Ave  atque  Vale/ 
A few  days  later  De  Morgan  wrote  triumphantly : ‘ Evelyn 
came  into  my  room  yesterday  saying,  as  I thought,  “I’ve  got 
such  a capital  motto : Mox  moturi  te  salutamus.  Vale ! ” 

It  was  a lucky  mis-hearing  to  my  thought,  as  “ Mox  moturi  ” 
runs  “ morituri  ” closer  than  “ nos  moturi.”  It  will  do  beauti- 
fully.’ So  the  invitations  were  dispatched  with  the  two  mottoes, 
and  the  recipients  understood  the  ominous  words,  ‘ We  about 
to  move,  salute  you ! ’ 

‘ We  spend  the  time  putting  directions  on  envelopes,’  wrote 
De  Morgan  busily ; ‘ I have  been  all  the  way  through  the  Red 
Book  except  WXYZ,  and  am  panting  to  come  to  the  last 


‘BLIND  JIM  ’ AND  * LUCINDA  ' 319 

man  ! ’ Meanwhile  the  conditions  looked  hopeless  for  an  enter- 
tainment designed  to  be  partly  al  fresco , for  it  was  a niggardly 
summer  of  continuous  and  torrential  rain ; yet  when  the  im- 
portant date  arrived  a day  of  unclouded  sunshine  faded  into 
a night  of  balmy  breezes  and  glimmering  stars. 

And  as  darkness  fell,  the  Vale,  like  a victim  adorned  for  the 
sacrifice,  took  on  a new  beauty.  All  carriages  were  stopped 
at  the  prosaic  King’s  Road,  and  the  guests  wandered  a-foot 
into  an  unexpected  Fairyland.  Old  Chelsea  Pensioners  in  their 
scarlet  coats  guarded  the  lane,  which  was  festooned  with  glow- 
ing lanterns ; and  at  its  end  the  three  householders  received 
in  the  centre  of  the  roadway  under  trees  gemmed  with  fairy 
lamps.  There,  all  around,  brickwork  and  foliage  were  alike 
sparkling  with  points  of  flame.  Wherever  the  eye  turned,  the 
illumination  was  repeated  with  artistic  effect,  the  colours  blend- 
ing softly,  the  lines  of  twinkling  fire  swaying  in  the  breeze,  and 
creating,  down  spangled  vistas,  an  impression  of  limitless  space. 
The  three  houses  and  their  respective  gardens  were  open  to  the 
guests  of  all,  and  each  offered  a different  form  of  entertain- 
ment, both  within  and  without  doors.  In  one,  a band  played 
softly  while  nymphs  drifted  a-tune  over  the  turf  in  picturesque 
dances ; in  another,  a more  strenuous  concert  was  performed  ; 
while  in  the  De  Morgans’  garden  choral  singing,  heard  through 
the  open  doorway  of  the  studio,  was  interspersed  by  the  song 
of  a living  dryad  among  the  bushes,  hard  by  where  the  head 
of  Pan,  in  pottery,  looked  out  wickedly  from  a grove  of  grass- 
green  lamps.  As  the  hours  of  the  lovely  night  went  by,  the 
guests  wandered  and  lost  themselves  in  the  flower-scented 
dimness,  while  pretty  dresses  shimmered  to  changing  hues  in 
the  varying  lights,  and  merry  voices  punctuated  the  dreamy 
music.  Then,  by  and  by,  there  was  supper  and  song  in  the 
old  deer  park,  beneath  the  doomed  trees  which,  wreathed  with 
fairy-lights,  rocked  gently — continuously — in  a whispering 
breeze. 

‘ There  was  music,  and  good  talk  and  laughter,’  related 
the  Press,  ‘ and  in  Mrs.  De  Morgan’s  beautiful,  half-lit  studio, 
her  exquisite  saints  and  angels,  set  in  lilies  and  scarlet  blossoms, 
looked  down  upon  us  with  their  serene  sweetness,  calling  us  back 
to  Italy  with  insistence,  while  we  listened  to  a chorus  of  sweet 
Italian  voices.  . . . Every  detail  of  the  brilliant  scene  had  its 
especial  value,  and  comes  back  with  startling  clearness.  . . . 
We  were  all  the  gayer,  seemingly,  because  this  was  the  end.’ 

‘ I passed  the  evening,’  De  Morgan  wrote  to  Heinemann, 
‘ in  such  a hopeless  bewilderment  in  a huge  throng,  that  we 
might  very  easily  have  both  been  in  it  unknown  to  each  other. 
It  was  like  Cremome  ! It  Never  Can  Happen  Again  because 
we  go  out  at  Michaelmas.’ 


320  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

Unfortunately,  before  that  date,  an  accident  which  befell 
Evelyn  caused  a severe  injury  to  her  right  arm  which,  for  a 
time,  threatened  to  disable  it  permanently.  Confronted  by 
the  horror  of  a crippled  existence  during  which  she  might  never 
be  able  to  paint  again,  and  for  the  present  unable  to  travel, 
she  and  her  husband  remained  perforce  at  the  Vale  under  con- 
ditions which  were  peculiarly  melancholy,  for  the  work  of 
demolition  was  in  active  progress  and  the  sound  of  pickaxes 
rang  in  their  ears  all  day.  ‘ This  with  our  move  impending ! * 
wrote  De  Morgan  tragically.  ‘I  had  to  give  up  my  voyage, 
and  we  are  here  still  by  grace  of  our  landlords.  All  the  place 
is  pulled  down  about  us,  and  we  are  isolated  in  a wilderness 
of  brick  rubbish.'  In  consequence,  a legend  obtained  credence 
that  De  Morgan  had  refused  to  leave  his  old  home  even  when 
the  walls  were  falling  about  him. 

Under  such  conditions  of  anxiety  and  discomfort  he  greeted 
the  publication,  on  his  70th  birthday,  of  It  Never  Can  Happen 
Again , dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Ralph,  Earl  of  Lovelace, 
‘ in  remembrance  of  two  long  concurrent  lives  and  an  unin- 
terrupted friendship.'  The  date  of  the  public  appearance  of 
this  book  fulfilled  a prediction  he  had  made,  in  consequence  of 
a critic  having  misstated  his  age,  that  if  he  lived  to  be  seventy 
he  would  in  the  interval  write  four  or  five  volumes  as  long  as 
his  first.  Simultaneously  with  its  appearance,  the  following 
verse  was  sent  to  him  from  America  : — 

* A Novel  Rhyme 

(With  apologies  to  William  De  Morgan). 

* Joseph  Vance  kissed  Alice-for-Short 
As  the  two  in  the  library  stood: 

It  Never  Can  Happen  Again , she  cried. 

He  sighed  : It  was  Somehow  Good  ! * 

De  Morgan  was  extremely  anxious  to  ascertain  the  result 
of  publishing  his  book  in  two  volumes  in  defiance  of  the  fiat 
of  the  libraries.  ‘ If  any  discussion  arises  from  it  which  enables 
me  to  say  my  say  audibly  on  the  subject  of  the  arbitrary  limita- 
tion of  the  length  of  books,  I shall  consider  that  the  sacrifice 
has  not  been  in  vain,'  he  said  ; for  he  remained  convinced  that 
the  tendency  of  such  action  was  to  make  the  literature  of  the 
future  superficial  by  forcing  it  inevitably  into  a groove,  so  that 
all  writers,  whatever  the  nature  of  their  ability,  would  perforce 
aim  at  being  impressionist  rather  than  profound,  at  achieving 
a brilliant  tom  de  force  rather  than  any  faithful  picture  of  life. 
‘For  all  the  clever ality  of  such  novels,'  he  conceded,  ‘ and 
no  word  suits  them  better  than  the  one  Charlotte  Bronte  coined 
— their  characters  are  apt  to  be  vivacious  passing  acquaintances, 
not  lifelong  friends.' 


Where  William  De  Morgan  lived  till  1910,  when  it  was  pulled  down. 


4 BLIND  JIM  * AND  4 LUCINDA  * 321 

But  his  conclusion  in  regard  to  the  experiment  was  disap- 
pointing. 4 It  is  the  old  cry  for  cheapness/  he  discovered,  4 com- 
fort and  luxury — even  the  quality  of  the  contents  do  not  weigh 
in  the  balance/  and  to  his  cousin  Miss  Seeley  he  wrote  : — 

* The  book  is  boycotted  by  four  of  the  largest  libraries, 
ostensibly  for  being  too  dear,  and  in  two  volumes.  I don’t 
think  it  matters,  because  it  is  all  the  same  to  me  whether  100 
people  read  circulating  library  volumes  or  10  buy  copies  for 
themselves.  As  for  the  other  90,  if  they  like  having  their  books 
Index  Expurgatoriussed  by  these  chaps,  they  must  please  them- 
selves— / should  transfer  my  subscription  to  less  Papal  libraries. 

4 Heinemann  has  offered  to  supply  the  book  to  them  in  one 
volume,  if  that’s  the  difficulty.  As  to  the  price,  if  they  can’t 
buy  books  at  3 d.  for  x 1,000  words,  with  commas  and  semi-colons, 
and  all  well  spelled,  they  may  e’en  go  without ! ’ 

4 None  the  less,’  he  wrote  later,  4 I think  the  action  of  the 
libraries  has  brought  about  so  many  private  purchases  that 
we  (publisher  and  self)  really  stand  to  gain  by  it  ! ’ 

Not  perhaps  so  generally  popular  as  his  earlier  books,  this 
fourth  novel  is  nevertheless  one  of  his  finest  studies  of  char- 
acter. The  plot  hinges  on  the  passing  in  August,  1907,  of  the 
Bill  for  legalizing  marriage  with  the  Deceased  Wife’s  Sister. 
It  describes  how  Challis,  a successful  author,  husband  of  an 
aggressively  suburban  wife,  dwelling  amid  aggressively  suburban 
surroundings,  by  reason  of  his  literary  celebrity  finds  himsdf 
transported  into  a social  milieu  superior  to  that  to  which  he  has 
been  accustomed.  He  goes  to  stay  at  Royd,  a typical  country 
house,  and  there  encounters  handsome  Judith  Arkroyd,  4 a 
Grosvenor  Square  young  lady,’  as  his  wife  defines  her,  who  is 
illustrative  of  a certain  type  of  society  woman : hard,  self- 
absorbed  and  unscrupulous,  yet  pre-eminently  fascinating. 
An  adept  at  flirtation,  she  exercises  her  charm  upon  the  lion 
of  the  hour  as  a pastime,  and  ends  by  finding  that  what  heart 
she  is  possessed  of  has  become  more  seriously  involved.  The 
situation  turns  on  the  fact  that  Marianne,  the  author’s  wife, 
is  the  half-sister  of  his  first  wife,  and  therefore  it  appears  pos- 
sible for  Judith  to  become  legally  united  to  the  man  with  whom 
she  is  infatuated  if  the  marriage  can  be  rushed  through  before 
the  passkig  of  the  Bill  which  would  rivet  his  union  with  Marianne. 

One  of  the  most  graphic  scenes  in  the  book  is  when  Challis, 
unconsciously  drifting  under  the  spell  of  Judith’s  witchery, 
returns  home,  full  of  self-deception  and  good  resolutions,  to  the 
stupid  little  wife  whom  he  conscientiously  thinks  he  loves, 
and  who  awaits  him  with  a dawning  suspicion  of  the  dangerous 
fascination  of  her  rival.  The  atmosphere  of  the  life  which  he 
has  left  compared  with  that  to  which  he  comes  back  is  cleverly 
suggested — never  insisted  upon.  The  long,  wearisome  drive 

x 


322  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

from  Euston  in  an  evil-smelling  cab  with  a jaded  horse ; the 
arrival  at  a house  palpably  redolent  of  mutton  and  cabbage 
cooking  for  the  delayed  dinner ; the  inevitable  row  with  the 
extortionate  cabman  and  the  obnoxious  ‘ runner  ' ; the  matter- 
of-fact,  somewhat  acrid  greeting  of  Marianne,  the  woman  whom 
he  is  morally  bound  to  love — all  contrast  with  that  different 
world  which  he  has  left,  above  all  with  the  haunting  glamour 
of  that  incipient  romance — the  existence  of  which  he  still  men- 
tally denies. 

* When  any  lady  or  gentleman  comes  back  from  an  absence  in  a cab 
with  luggage  on  it — however  passionate  may  have  been  her  or  his  longing 
for  a corresponding  him  or  her  who  may  have  been  (or  might  have  been) 
watching  at  the  door  for  its  arrival,  or  however  much  the  two  of  them 
may  feel  disposed  to — 

‘ “ Stand  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth ** 

they  usually  find,  in  practice,  that  it  is  necessary  to  stand  matters  over 
because  of  the  cab.  This  does  not,  of  course,  apply  to  where  a man- 
servant is  kept,  who  can  pay  fares  dogmatically,  and  conduct  himself  like 
the  Pope  in  Council.  But  where  the  yearnings  of  both  parties  have  to  be 
suppressed  all  through  a discussion  of  the  fare  and  a repulse  of  the  unem- 
ployed, whose  services  have  been  anticipated  by  your  own  mercenaries 
. . . well ! do  what  you  will  in  the  way  of  cordiality  afterwards,  it  is 
chilling,  and  you  can’t  deny  it.  We  know  we  are  putting  this  in  a very 
homely  way,  but  this  is  a very  homely  subject.’ 

And  later,  when  for  Challis  the  time  of  self-deception  has 
passed,  and  Judith  has  maddened  him  into  a betrayal  of  the 
secret  he  had  guarded  even  from  his  own  consciousness,  still  more 
realistic  is  the  description  of  that  other  return  to  the  silent  house 
which  his  wife  has  left ; of  the  solitary  hours  that  followed, 
punctuated  by  the  voices  of  quarrelling  servants  indoors  and 
drizzling  rain  without,  and  rendered  more  intolerable  by  the 
recollection  of  that  wonderful  episode  in  the  garden  at  Royd  the 
evening  before — of  proud  Judith  with  her  passion-lit  eyes,  her 
beauty  intensified  in  the  mystery  of  the  moonlight,  her  dress  of 
sequins,  flashing,  paling,  with  a thousand  opalescent  tints  while 
it  swathed  her  about,  like  the  scales  of  a snake,  lithe  and  sinuous. 

. . . And  as  the  tortured  man  recalled  that  reprehensible  inci- 
dent, there  floated  about  him  again  the  stillness,  the  moonlight, 
the  intoxicating  scent  of  the  roses,  the  murmuring  speech  of  the 
woman  who  had  wrung  from  him  a confession  he  deplored.  . . . 
Life  is  full  of  such  contrasts — of  such  resolutions  as  those  framed 
by  Challis — which  leave  a man  as  putty  in  the  moulding  of  Fate. 

In  a book  of  this  description,  teeming  with  a variety  of 
characters  and  incident,  it  is  difficult  to  instance  one  episode  or 
one  person  as  being  more  especially  worthy  of  quotation.  * You 
want  your  De  Morgan  whole,  or  you  want  none  of  him/  aptly 
pointed  out  a reviewer.  Nevertheless,  among  the  finest  pieces 


‘BLIND  JIM  ’ AND  ‘ LUCINDA  9 323 

of  characterization  is  undoubtedly  that  of  the  athletic  Rector, 
Athelstan  Taylor,  a magnificent  specimen  of  his  profession, 
whom  one  meets  alike  at  Royd  and  in  the  slums  and  hospitals, 
coping  heroically  with  unmentionable  horrors.  He  serves  to 
refute  the  heretical  opinions  of  Challis  on  matters  theological, 
thus  presenting  different  aspects  of  certain  many-sided  problems 
which  are  further,  if  more  satirically,  exploited  by  the  meta- 
physics of  the  great  German  philosopher,  Graubosch,  and  his 
interpreters.  De  Morgan  introduced  the  character  of  the  clergy- 
man into  his  book  partly  at  the  representation  of  certain 
readers,  and  partly  out  of  gratitude  for  the  warm  appreciation 
expressed  for  his  novels  by  so  many  ecclesiastical  critics.  ‘ Even 
Canons  and  Bishops  seem  to  love  me  in  spite  of  my  heresies ! * 
he  said  once,  and  ascribed  this  to  what  he  termed  his  ‘ immor- 
talism/  As  to  the  philosophy  of  Graubosch  (to  the  initiated 
Grand-bosh),  * The  Standard / he  wrote  to  Miss  Seeley  gleefully, 
* says  that  Graubosch  is  the  silliest  thing  ever  written.  It 
must  be  very  silly  ! ' 

But  the  outstanding  feature  of  It  Never  Can  Happen  Again 
remains  the  faithfulness  with  which  three  grades  of  Society  are 
depicted — the  clique  to  which  Judith  belongs  with  its  own 
peculiar  limitations  of  outlook  and  tradition  ; the  suburban  life 
of  which  the  exponents  are  the  petty-minded  Marianne  and  her 
friend  the  mischief-making  Mrs.  Eldridge ; and  lastly  the  slum- 
life  wherein  the  reader  makes  many  valued  friends  besides  the 
impressive  Mrs.  Steptoe — ‘ Aunt  Stingy  ’ — and  her  poor,  pathetic 
brother  Jim  Coupland,  the  blind  ex-sailor  with  his  little  ‘ py-lot ' 
Lizerann — Lizerann  of  whom  none  can  surely  read  without  a 
catch  in  the  voice,  being  as  she  is  one  of  the  most  human,  pitiful, 
and  tragic  little  figures  in  all  fiction. 

And  throughout  the  story,  divergent  as  are  the  courses  of 
these  various  lives,  their  destinies  overlap  and  are  interdependent, 
so  that  no  episode  in  their  several  histories  is  extraneous  or 
irrelevant  to  the  whole ; and  the  final  denouement,  when  it 
comes,  is  as  ingenious  as  it  is  unexpected. 

Anent  this  book,  De  Morgan  wrote  to  Professor  Phelps : — 

* Of  course  I like  Lizerann  and  Jim  better  than  the  others.  But  they, 
the  others,  are  like  the  man  in  Uncle  Remus’s  story  who  might  have  been 
ole  one-eyed  Riley — there  they  were  in  the  story  and  I had  to  see  what 
could  be  done  with  them. 

‘ I hope  you  will  live  to  read  many  novels  I shall  never  live  to  write. 
Now,  isn’t  that  an  illustration  of  how  intelligible  the  technically  inaccurate 
may  be  ? ’ 

‘ At  the  time,  when  my  parents  and  I were  reading  aloud 
It  Never  Can  Happen  Again  * relates  Miss  Holiday,  * some  remark 
was  made  in  De  Morgan’s  presence  about  the  repellent  char- 
acter of  Mrs.  Eldridge.  “I  flatter  myself,”  he  replied,  “ that 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


324 

Mrs.  Eldridge  is  the  most  odious  character  in  all  fiction.”  u But 
did  you  ever  meet  her  in  real  life?  ” I asked.  “No — o,  at  least, 
she’s  a mixture  of  two  or  three  women — in  that  sense  I have  met 
her ! " 

1 Judith  is  an  awful  minx  ! ' complained  another  friend  to 
him. 

‘ Well,  you  see — she  was  a minx — I couldn’t  help  it ! ’ he 
replied  regretfully. 

‘ The  only  thing/  suggested  a hypercritical  reader,  * which 
struck  me  as  far-fetched  in  the  book,  was  the  chauffeur  driving 
over  poor  blind  Jim  twice  and  never  even  stopping  ! ’ 

‘ That  is  the  only  thing  in  the  book  which  is  really  true ! ' 
said  De  Morgan. 

Yet  he  lamented  a lack  of  realism  in  one  episode.  ‘ On  the 
first  page  of  Vol.  II  Marianne  is  biting  a pencil.  There  is  not 
a particle  of  evidence  that  she  had  taken  a penstick  out  of  her 
mouth  that  was  there  at  the  beginning  of  the  same  page.  She 
never  had  both  in  her  mouth  at  once  ! No,  no  ! — it’s  a clear  case 
for  apology  and  correction.  See  next  impression,  please  ! ' 

‘ This  book,'  writes  a settler  to  De  Morgan  from  a lonely  ranch,  ‘ is 
to  my  taste,  the  better  novel,  but  Joe  Vance  is  the  better  circle  of  friends. 
My  chum  from  California  (honest  we  don’t  say  pal  and  pard  except  in 
Bret  Harte)  is  re-reading  it  for  the  fifth  time,  and  says  all  the  Californians 
are  doing  ditto  ! ' 

‘ Don’t  I just  long,’  writes  a lady  from  Philadelphia,  ‘ to  learn  whole 
chunks  of  the  juicy  bits  by  heart  ! ’ 

‘ I do  truly  love  your  books.  And  You,'  announces  another  at  the 
beginning  of  a very  long  letter.  ‘ That  is  really  all  I want  to  say,  I suppose, 
and  it  is  said.  And  seeing  that  if  you  knew  who  I am  you  certainly 
wouldn’t  care  tuppence  whether  I loved  you  and  your  books  or  not,  why 
say  more  ? ’ 

But  the  most  apt  appreciation,  one  which  at  least  pleased 
him  by  its  brevity,  was  as  follows 

A Stranger  to  William  De  Morgan. 

* June  20 th,  1909. 

* Dear  Sir,— 

‘ There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  said  about  It  Never  Can  Happen 
Again — I wish  it  might  ! 

* Yours  faithfully, 

‘ C.  G.’ 

At  the  close  of  the  book  De  Morgan  had  invited  his  readers 
to  criticize  anything  in  his  work  requiring  revision,  which  he 
promised  should,  if  practicable,  be  remedied  in  a later  edition. 
The  result  was  that  he  received  many  interesting  letters,  some 
of  which  contained  suggestions  upon  which  he  acted.  Amongst 
these  was  a communication  from  New  Zealand  pointing  out  that, 


4 BLIND  JIM  * AND  * LUCINDA  ’ 325 

4 There  is  one  incident  in  the  book  which  Never  Has  Happened 
Before,  namely  that  of  the  polar  bear  in  the  South  Atlantic — 
polar  bears  being  as  scarce  south  of  the  line  as  albatrosses  are 
north  of  it.’  So  De  Morgan  removed  his  bear  to  more  suitable 
regions,  with  the  result  to  which  he  referred  in  his  correspondence 
with  Father  Vassal  Philips — that  he  had  to  put  him  back  again  ! 

4 Why  do  you  add  to  your  labours  by  answering  all  those 
correspondents  ? ' some  one  once  asked  him. 

4 I must  answer  them/  he  responded  quaintly,  4 or  they’ll 
think  they  are  out  of  my  good  books  ! ’ 

Before  the  advent  of  It  Never  Can  Happen  Again,  De  Morgan 
heard  from  his  old  friend  Mr.  Vance  : — 

Louis  Joseph  Vance  to  William  De  Morgan. 

* Box  38, 

* Vineyard  Haven, 

' Massachusetts, 

1 September  11th,  1909. 

* Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan, — 

‘ My  father,  having  written  a book,  wishes  me  to  send  you  a copy 
thereof.  He  says  he  thinks  that  the  author  of  Joseph  Vance  might  be 
interested  to  read  a book  by  the  author  of  Joseph  Vance.  And  I think 
he  will  be,  for  in  spite  of  the  B’s  in  Big  John  Baldwin  it  has  nothing  what- 
ever in  common  with  The  Brass  Bowl  and  The  Black  Bag — praises  be  ! 

‘ So  I’m  sending  you  the  book  by  this  post. 

* Believe  me,  I am,  with  best  wishes, 

‘ Faithfully  yours, 

‘ Louis  Joseph  Vance.’ 

When  De  Morgan  examined  this  volume,  he  found  the  title- 
page  inscribed  as  follows  - 

4 To  William  De  Morgan,  author  of  44  Joseph  Vance, ” from 
W.  Vance,  great-grandson,  grand-nephew,  cousin,  son,  brother  and 
father  of  Joseph  Vance / 

Meanwhile  the  competition  for  the  Curtis  prize  had  taken 
place  in  America,  and  the  best  Essay  had  been  judged  to  be  by 
Henry  Dennis  Hammond,  an  undergraduate  from  Tennessee. 
This  was  published  in  the  Yale  C our  ant,  and  two  copies  were 
sent  to  De  Morgan ; one  he  returned,  with  amusing  comments 
written  on  the  margins,  and  a letter  addressed  to  the  young 
prize-winner,  in  which  he  says : — 

‘ I should  be  very  curious  to  know  whether  by  chance  any  of  the 
competitors  have  detected  my  special  motif  in  each  of  my  three  volumes. 
No  reviewer  has  hit  the  mark — and  no  one  in  conversation  so  far.  So  I 
doubt  whether  my  own  version  would  recommend  itself  to  my  readers, 
and  shall  just  keep  my  own  counsel  about  it.’ 

Later,  in  regard  to  this  same  question,  he  wrote  to  Professor 
Phelps  : 4 I meant  a motif  apiece  for  each  volume  ; but  I feel 
very  unprepared  to  make  an  exact  wording  of  it.  What  I meant 


326  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

was,  I should  like  to  see  whether  any  of  the  young  competitors 
had  caught  the  clue  / catch  occasionally  in  my  own  meaning. 
For  instance,  if  one  were  to  say  that  the  dominant  of  Dr.  Thorpe's 
little  lecture  sounds  all  through  Joseph  Vance,  I should  feel 
he  and  I were  rather  in  communion.  But  I should  hesitate  to 
claim  immortalism  passim  as  the  keynote.  It  would  be  too 
broad  a statement. 

4 1 should  have  to  speak  with  a like  reserve  of  both  the  other 
books — but  each  had  a motif,  I know.  Perhaps  I should  screw 
myself  to  more  explicitness  if  I had  not  a slight  attack  of  'flu. 
It  makes  one  dodder  ! * 

At  this  date  De  Morgan,  at  the  instigation  of  Professor 
Phelps,  had  been  reading  what  the  latter  designated  ‘ the  greatest 
dog  story  ever  written,  though  it  has  a hundred  readers  in 
America  to  one  in  England.’  This  was  a novel  by  a young 
writer,  Alfred  Ollivant,  which  was  published  in  America  under 
the  title  of  Bob,  Son  of  Battle,  and  in  England  as  Owd  Bob . While 
perusing  this,  he  received  a copy  of  the  Forum  which  contained 
an  article  by  Professor  Phelps  on  the  novels  of  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward,  upon  receipt  of  which  De  Morgan  wrote  : — 

‘ This  is  just  to  convey  my  thanks  to  you  for  the  Forum.  All  I can 
say  is,  Heaven  avert  such  a keen  searchlight  from  my  own  misdeeds. 
For  at  present  I am  being  let  off  easily,  owing  to  literary  youth  and  in- 
experience. 

‘ I ought  to  know  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward’s  work  better  than  I do. 
But  the  same  is  true  of  more  great  authors  than  I can  count.  She  has 
biased  me  a little  against  her  works  still  unknown  to  me  by  going  “ Anti- 
Suffragette.”  I may,  however,  be  supposing  you  are  otherwise,  too 
readily  ? 

* I was  grateful  to  you  for  bringing  me  to  know  Owd  Bob — but  I did 
think  it  had  got  the  wrong  title.  “ The  Tailless  Tyke  ” surely  would 
have  been  a truer  one.  Me  Adam  is  lovely — I didn’t  care  much  for  the 
lovers  though.  . . .’ 

Later  he  wrote  : — 

* I see  we  are  of  one  mind  that  the  most  vivid  interest  of  the  story 
is  in  the  tailless  tyke  and  his  master — nothing  could  be  better  than  either. 
Of  course  one  loves  Bob  better — but  one  is  very  wicked  by  nature,  and 
picturesque  fiends  of  all  kinds  must  continue  engrossing.’ 

In  the  same  letter,  in  answer  to  Professor  Phelps’s  condem- 
nation of  spelling  reform,  he  remarks  : — 

* How  I agree  with  you  about  this  spelling  craze  ! How  could  I else, 
holding  as  I do  that  to  ask  the  way  to  Charing  Cross  is  to  make  an  enquiry, 
but  that  one  makes  an  inquiry  into  the  nature  of  things  ? My  broad 
impression  is  the  enquiries  get  answers,  and  inquiries  don’t.  Please  put 
this  down  to  flu,  if  you  see  no  meaning  in  it  ! ’ 

One  result  of  De  Morgan’s  success  in  literature  was  that, 
with  the  complete  absence  of  any  element  of  pettiness  in  his 
)wn  nature,  he  appreciated  all  the  more  keenly  the  merits  of 


* BLIND  JIM  ’ AND  ‘LUCINDA’  327 

other  writers  in  comparison  with  that  of  the  ‘ lazy,  undeserving 
chap  * he  pictured  himself  to  be ; while  his  own  scanty  know- 
ledge of  modem  literature  distressed  him.  ‘ I wish  I were  three 
gentlemen  in  one  like  Cerberus  ! ' he  wrote  to  Professor  Phelps, 
‘ and  then  two  of  them  should  read  books,  while  the  other  wrote 
human  documents  ' ; and  again  he  says  : ‘ I am  simply  horribly 
ashamed  of  the  quantity  of  modem  fiction  that  I do  not  read — 
(that’s  ill-expressed  but  clear  in  sense),  and  as  soon  as  I have 
written  my  last  word,  I must  turn-to  seriously  and  make  up 
for  lost  time — I think  I must  take  a hint  from  your  text,  and 
begin  with  The  Return  of  the  Native.  I read  Far  From , etc., 
when  it  came  out,  and  Tess  only  half,  a friend  carrying  it  away 
when  I was  half-way  through.  That  has  been  the  fate  of  so 
many  novels  in  my  hands  ! ’ 

When  his  friend  Mr.  Scott-Moncrieff  sent  him  a volume  of 
newly-published  poems,  entitled  Amor  Amoris , and  the  book 
arrived  at  the  moment  of  the  annual  departure  for  Italy,  De 
Morgan  wrote  afterwards  describing  how  he  and  Evelyn  alter- 
nately snatched  the  volume  from  each  other  in  order  to  devour 
some  especially  delightful  passage,  till  they  all  but  lost  their 
train  in  consequence.  Later  he  remarked  respecting  an  American 
review  of  this  book  : — 

‘ I have  read  the  quotations,  as  a small  boy  picks  the  currants  out  of  a 
cake  ! 

‘ English  authors  certainly  meet  with  recognition  in  the  U.S.A. — 
sometimes  much  too  ! — as  instance  me,  of  whom  my  friend  Lyon  Phelps 
at  Yale  deliberately  said  recently  that  I was  Dickens  redivivus,  or  much 
the  same  thing  ! 

* You  are  more  Shakespearianly  Shakespeare  than  can  easily  be 
accounted  for.  It’s  a puzzle. 

‘ Do  you  know,  I thought  it  was  the  Wind  you  made  the  bridegroom 
of  the  Sea,  so  that  my  mind  had  to  discipline  itself  to  accept  the  Sun  ; 
however,  it’s  at  rest  now  and  the  Sun  is  as  welcome.  Perhaps  the  Sea  is 
bigamous,  if  we  knew. 

‘ I congratulate  You  | , ■ 

Mackail  } on  makmS 

the  acquaintance  of  Mackail  \ 

Yourself  J 

* Love  to  you  all  from  both  halves  here — better  and  worser.* 

And  when  Mr.  Moncrieff  became  disheartened  at  the  lack 
of  appreciation  for  poetry  evinced  by  the  public,  De  Morgan 
wrote  earnestly  : ‘You  have  just  got  to  pay  no  attention  to 
what  anyone  thinks  (except  me,  of  course  !)  and  leave  a big 
lump  of  verse  for  posterity,  anyhow  ; though  for  my  part  I 
hope  there  will  be  a revival  of  poetry  and  art  one  day  soon. 
Believe  me,  the  biggest  man  is  he  who  pays  least  heed  to  his 
misfortunes,  and  goes  on  doggedly,  using  up  the  rest  of  the 
time  to  the  best  advantage.  Stop  ! Isn’t  that  too  preachy- 
weachy  I However,  I was  really  thinking  of  the  undersigned 


328  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

who  certainly  wasted  40  years  of  a long  life,  and  is  sorry  now.' 

On  another  occasion,  after  Mr.  Moncrieff  had  altered  some 
verses  to  please  him,  he  wrote  naively 

* Bravo  ! I like  that  heaps  better.  Nothing  like  nagging  at  a Poet ! 
Why  not  send  it  to  The  Times  ? It  is  only  a matter  of  chance.  They 
must  have  tons  of  poetical  MS.  sent  them.  I sent  them  some  lines  myself 
a little  while  since,  and  they  came  back — they  are  very  good  about  return- 
ing things,  so  one  knows  where  one  is. 

' I suppose  the  absence  of  adjective  is  to  be  aimed  at.  Still,  a poem 
that  I account  a triumph  begins  with  two — Browning’s  “ Love  among 
the  ruins  ”...  Of  course  the  omission  of  all  the  parts  of  speech  would 
make  a language  technically  perfect,  and  would  reach  the  ideal  of  the 
maxim — •“  Least  said  soonest  mended  ! ” ’ 

To  Lady  Glenconner,  after  peeping  into  the  pages  of  her 
volume  of  verses  entitled  Windlestraw  he  wrote  in  delight  at 
‘ the  audible  voice  of  the  book  ’ ; and  his  remarks  recall  that 
little  babe— the  ‘ three-toed  wood-pecker  ’ — of  nearly  seventy 
years  before,  poring  over  the  fat  volume  of  Bewick’s  Birds. 

* I won’t  particularize  poems — I should  name  so  many  it  would  take 
the  edge  off  distinction.  But  you  certainly  have  the  most  happy  faculty 
of  Tennysonian  landscape,  backed  by  a knowledge  I envy  of  birds  and 
flowers  and  trees.  I do  wish  I had  paid  more  attention  to  them  in  my 
time — they  would  come  in  so  useful  in  these  later  days  of  pen-and-inkery. 

‘ I suppose  “ windlestraw  ” is  the  chaff  that  blows  from  the  winnowing 
machine  ? It’s  a word  I never  heard — but  I dare  say  a common  one 
enough  in  country  districts.’ 

Of  Browning  he  wrote  : — 

* I wish  I had  read  The  Ring  and  the  Booh — a shocking  thing  for  a 
writer  to  say  ! But  it’s  all  past  praying  for  now,  for  me.  I refer  to  the 
study  of  the  literae  humaniores — I scarcely  looked  in  a book  for  forty  long 
years — there’s  a confession  ! — a little  exaggerated  in  form  from  chagrin 
at  the  truth  of  its  spirit,  but  substantially  true  for  all  that. 

‘ So  I am  really  a stranger  to  my  Browning,  not  having  read  what  so 
many  think  his  greatest  achievement.  (That’s  so,  isn’t  it  ?) 

‘ My  ignorance  of  this  poem  must  be  forgotten,  please,  in  consideration 
of  my  admiration  of  his  shorter  poems,  within  my  grasp,  and  especially 
of  the  fact  that  my  enjoyment  of  “ John  Jones  ” has  rather  than  otherwise 
enhanced  that  admiration.  Even  so  a friend  once  told  me  he  had  never 
really  enjoyed  the  “ Appassionata  ” sonata  until  a man  wrote,  and  played, 
a caricature  of  it.  But  how  that  caricaturist  must  have  known  his  Beeth- 
oven ! What  a knowledge  of  Browning  must  Swinburne’s  have  been  ! 

‘ The  twenty-six  letters  of  the  alphabet  are  very  powerful.  If  it  were 
not  for  them  the  chief  recollection  of  Britannia  by  the  States  would  be 
the  discomfiture  of  the  former’s  butler  by  Uncle  Sam  a century  or  more 
ago.  But  the  mere  rearrangement  of  those  26  makes  Browning  and 
Shakespeare  possible — even  if  the  latter  was  really  somebody  else.’ 

After  reading  a book  of  Oscar  Wilde’s,  he  wrote : — 

* What  a queer  fish  he  was  ! One  would  have  thought  he  would  have 
shown  his  cloven  foot  in  his  writings.  But  I cannot  detect  a trace.  He 
is  uniformly  brilliant  and  fantastic — perhaps  a pause  might  be  welcome 
sometimes.’ 


• BLIND  JIM  ’ AND  * LUCINDA  * 329 

In  January,  1910,  Professor  Phelps  published  his  Essays 
on  Modern  Novelists,  in  which  the  first  Essay,  from  which  quota- 
tions have  been  given,  is  devoted  to  William  De  Morgan  ; and 
this  drew  from  the  latter  an  interesting  comment  on  his  own  work 
and  that  by  his  unknown  friend  : — 

‘ Your  book  has  come  to  hand,  and — need  I say  ? — my 
reading  aloud  to  my  wife  of  your  much  too  high  estimate  of 
my  work  gave  intense  pleasure  to  both  of  us.  For  it  would  be 
merely  artificial  to  pretend  that  one’s  amour  propre  (one’s  wife 
is  included  always)  is  a bit  the  less  gratified  because  one  has 
subcutaneous  doubts  of  one’s  deserts — on  the  contrary,  I doubt 
if  one  doesn’t  enjoy  a good  pat  on  the  back  all  the  more  under 
these  circumstances.  Anyhow,  thanks  heartily  ! 

4 So  far,  speaking  broadly,  I can  express  my  gratitude.  But 
I don’t  know  how  to  find  words  for  my  appreciation  of  your 
keen  insight  into  the  soul  of  the  books.  On  p.  19  and  20  you 
have  detected  and  emphasized  the  ingrained  immortalism  in 
J.  Vance  better  than  I have  seen  it  done  yet.  I chose  to  write 
the  book  on  these  lines  ; but  even  in  this,  observe,  I only  expressed 
the  views  of  my  puppets.  I have  a right,  as  mere  wire-puller, 
to  keep  my  own  views  to  myself.  “ Stet  ” is  all  I have  to  say 
about  everything  they  say. 

‘ So,  on  pp.  22-23  we  are  d' accord.  People  won’t  believe 
me  generally  when  I tell  them  I love  Janey  better  than  Lossie  ; 
but  it  is  true,  and  you  can  believe  it  on  my  assurance,  as  you 
are  of  the  same  mind.  I could  have  drowned  Lossie  much 
more  easily  than  Janey. 

‘ My  father’s  identity  is  divided  between  Thorpe  and  Absalom. 
To  me  it  does  not  enter  into  that  of  Joe’s  father,  who  has  no 
prototype  in  any  one  individual.  I have  not  consciously  used 
my  father’s  humorous  side  in  any  of  the  books.  But  his  immor- 
talism was  as  marked  as  Shakespeare’s  or  Browning’s.  . . . 

‘ Of  course,  I go  off  in  Mississippi  mouths  at  the  end  because 
by  then  I’ve  cotched  my  victim  and  he’s  just  got  to  read  or  let 
it  alone.  That’s  his  look  out ! 

‘ My  works  are,  in  my  own  opinion,  founded  almost  entirely 
on  Dickens,  with  very  rare  streaks  of  individuality.  I nearly 
burned  Chaps.  1 and  2 of  J.  Vance  because  I thought  the  imitation 
too  gross. 

' Your  collection  of  authors’  interruptions  of  their  text, 
to  talk  to  the  reader,  is  most  amusing.  Some  law  of  limitation 
should  check  this  sort  of  thing — I don’t  think  any  has  been 
formulated — I notice  (for  my  private  consolation)  that  the 
only  specific  instance  given  of  this  vice  in  me  comes  from  a 
chapter  heading,  not  from  the  text.  I dare  say  my  memory 
is  at  fault,  but  I can  call  to  mind  no  case  of  my  talking  about 
the  story-structure  as  an  author  to  the  reader  as  its  reader.  . . . 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


330 

However,  I am  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  have  any  right  to 
take  exception  to  critiques — I have  been  let  off  so  jolly  easy ! 
I put  it  down  to  my  years,  which  sometimes  impose  even  on 
their  owner,  and  make  him  fancy  he  is  grown  up.  . . / 

Meanwhile  De  Morgan  was  offered  the  degree  of  LL.D.  by 
the  University  of  Yale,  and  Professor  Phelps  wrote  to  urge  him 
to  come  to  New  Haven  to  receive  it ; but  he  replied : — 

William  De  Morgan  to  Professor  Lyon  Phelps . 

■ Viale  Milton  19, 

‘ Florence,  Italy, 

* May  24,  1910. 

* Dear  Prof.  Phelps, — 

‘ . . . Did  I write  to  you  of  our  misfortunes  of  last  autumn  ? 
Not  in  full,  anyhow.  It  came  about  thus  : we  were  just  leaving  our  old 
home,  which  was  on  the  point  of  being  pulled  down,  when  my  wife  met 
with  an  accident — fell  down  in  the  street,  and  was  brought  home  with 
a dislocated  shoulder.  The  case  was  most  grievously  mismanaged,  and 
months  of  trying  anxiety  have  followed  during  which  I have  done  little 
or  no  work.  She  may  never  be  fit  for  a visit  to  the  States,  and  I should 
not  come  without  her.  Neither  am  I over-fit  myself,  just  at  present — 
that  may  pass  off.  I am  only  70,  so  far,  and  a good  many  folk  live  another 
decade  or  two,  after  that.  However,  subordinate  reasons  why  I couldn’t 
come  hardly  count,  with  a big  insuperable  in  the  foreground — nevertheless 
there  are  plenty,  in  the  background.  There  is  a house,  standing  chaotic, 
in  Chelsea  (England)  waiting  to  be  got  in  order.  A nice  confusion  we  have 
been  in,  with  the  old  home  of  20  years  broken  up,  ructions  with  builders 
of  a new  one,  broken  limbs — such  a combination  ! 

' My  wife  uses  the  arm  amazingly,  and  a Swedish  masseuse  really 
seems  to  be  bringing  about  a gradual  reduction  of  the  bone  to  its  place. 
But  it  isn’t  landed,  yet  a while,  and  till  it  is,  I cannot  certainly  desert 
Mrs.  Micawber,  neither  can  she  travel  about,  however  great  the  temptation. 

* There  is  very  little  margin  for  an  increase  in  this  latter  article,  after 
your  invitation  and  the  delightful  latitude  you  offer.  Thank  you  for  it 
heartily. 

* A short  book  of  mine — only  400  pages  of  350  words  each — will  appear 
in  August,  say.  It  is  an  experiment  for  me — quite  unlike  all  the  others. 
I couldn’t  tell  at  first  what  period  it  would  turn  out.  It  decided  on  the 
Restoration — and  is  handicapped  by  its  author’s  ignorance  of  that  date. 
However,  that  won’t  matter  for  readers  who  know  less — and  those  who 
really  are  well  up  in  Pepys  and  Evelyn  will  have  to  be  forgiving — I have 
altered  historical  fact  to  suit  the  story,  more  than  once — I shall  be  curious 
to  see  the  result. 

‘ I am  sorry  this  letter  is  not  what  it  ought  to  be,  a promise  to  turn  up 
in  a month  at  New  Haven,  subject  to  the  Comet  having  spared  us. 

‘ Always  yours, 

‘ Wm.  De  Morgan.* 

‘ I am  dreadfully  sorry/  De  Morgan  wrote  on  the  abandon- 
ment of  this  pleasant  scheme,  ‘ and  should  be  still  more  so  if 
I were  young  enough  to  do  justice  to  my  visit — and  I may  add 
strong  enough,  for  I am  feeling  very  shaken  by  my  last  six  months. 
Better  times  may  be  in  store,  and  I may  yet  have  the  happiness 
of  shaking  hands  with  my  American  friends,  and  looking  back 


* BLIND  JIM  ’ AND  * LUCINDA  * 331 

to  it  for  the  rest  of  my  spell  on  this  side/  But  when  he  hesitated, 
Heinemann  put  the  frnal  veto  on  the  suggestion.  ‘ You  don’t 
know  what  your  reception  would  be  in  America/  he  urged. 

1 If  it  got  known  you  were  going  there  you  would  be  greeted 
with  such  an  ovation  and  endless  hospitality  that  you  would 
never  stand  it ; and  the  books  would  suffer/ 

‘ I suppose/  acquiesced  De  Morgan,  * you  mean  that  they 
would  kill  the  poor  old  goose  that  lays  the  addled  eggs ! * 

Nevertheless  he  wrote  with  deep  feeling : — 

* It  has  been  an  extraordinary  pleasure  to  me  to  find  that, 
Britisher  born  and  raised  as  I am,  I can  still  find  American 
readers.  I assure  you  that  the  receipt  of  assurances  to  that 
effect  from  remote  regions  out  West,  that  were  still  in  the  wilds 
when  I was  old  enough  to  read  Fenimore  Cooper  and  Catlin, 
have  been  to  me  a matter  of  rejoicing  and  bewilderment.  All 
the  more  because  it  shows  that  Politics  and  Geography  have 
completely  failed  in  making  foreigners  of  the  two  halves  of  a 
divided  race  that  speak  the  same  language,  and  will  do  so  as 
long  as  each  adopts  the  neologisms  of  the  other  as  fast  as  they 
come  from  the  mint/ 

Throughout  this  date,  under  singularly  adverse  conditions — 
filled  with  anxiety  about  his  wife,  turned  out  of  his  old  home, 
and  living  in  an  hotel  in  Queen’s  Gate — De  Morgan  was  struggling 
to  finish  the  novel  respecting  which  he  wrote  to  Professor  Phelps, 
and  which  he  usually  referred  to  as  ‘ the  Duel  Story  ’ ; but 
which  was  afterwards  published  under  the  title  of  An  Affair 
of  Dishonour.  On  February  19,  1909,  he  wrote  : ‘ I wish  I 
could  finish  it  before  I go  to  Florence,  but  oh  dear ! how  my 
poor  old  head  has  suffered  from  recent  events.  I’m  trying 
very  hard — only  the  odds  ! My  word  ! ! — I don’t  suppose 
the  book  will  begin  destroying  its  author’s  reputation  before 
next  Christmas.’  The  summary  of  this  story,  written  by  himself, 
was  as  follows  : — 

* The  story — so  we  are  informed  by  a gentleman  who  has  read  it  in 
proof — runs  somewhat  as  follows  : The  hero,  a dissolute  married  country 
gentleman,  Sir  Oliver  Raydon,  has  inveigled  from  her  home  Lucinda,  the 
beautiful  daughter  of  a neighbouring  squire — whom  he  kills  in  the  duel 
which  results  naturally  from  his  conduct.  This  is  scene  one. 

* He  cannot  bring  himself  to  the  confession  of  what  has  happened,  and 
to  conceal  it  from  Lucinda,  spirits  her  away  to  a lonely  residence  by  the 
sea,  Kipps  Manor,  near  Sole  Bay.  Here  a naval  battle  comes  off  within 
sight  of  land,  and  a survivor  who  is  brought  ashore  proves  to  be  Lucinda’s 
brother  back  from  Virginia,  but  blinded  by  an  explosion.  He  does  not 
recognize  his  sister,  who  conceals  her  identity.  Meanwhile  Oliver,  till 
now  a mere  brute  and  debauchee,  has  a new  experience.  He  falls  in  love 
with  his  victim.  His  reluctance  that  she  should  know  of  her  father's 
death  increases.  But  it  comes  out,  for  a discarded  mistress  of  his  elicits 
it  by  means  of  witchcraft  from  a groom  who  had  been  present  at  the  duel. 


332  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

and  makes  him  recount  the  whole  affair  in  a sort  of  mesmeric  trance  tc 
Lucinda.  This  leads  to  an  S clair  cissement.  Lucinda  returns  to  hei 
father’s  house,  and  is  followed  by  Oliver,  now  frantic  to  retain  her  love, 
and  constructing  all  sorts  of  excuses  for  himself.  He  fights  a duel  with 
her  brother  whose  eyesight  has  come  back  to  him  to  suit  the  convenience 
of  the  story,  but  fails  in  a fit  on  his  own  sword.  His  epileptic  attacks 
enter  into  the  story,  as  also  a disposition  to  walk  in  his  sleep.  Then  there 
are  dreams  and  ghosts  and  a witch-trial  and  the  Plague  and — oh  dear  ! — 
all  sorts  of  things.  Plenty  for  four-and-sixpence  in  all  conscience  ! 

‘ But  such  of  Mr.  De  Morgan’s  readers  as  consider  Porky  Owls  or 
Lizerann  or  their  equivalent  de  rigueur,  had  better  skip  this  book  and  wait 
for  the  next.  It  is  an  experiment  of  its  author’s,  and  may  prove  too  great 
a trial  for  their  patience.’ 

While  this  story  was  in  process  of  construction,  De  Morgan 
had  at  one  time  intended  that,  after  the  arrival  of  Lucinda’s 
brother,  Oliver  should  attempt  to  get  rid  of  the  inconvenient 
visitor  by  drastic  measures  : — 

* It  is  really  impossible  to  have  any  clear  idea  of  the  story  till  it  ends/ 
he  wrote  to  Heinemann.  ‘ Oliver,  I think,  knew  that  when  the  brother 
recovered  he  would  have  to  fight  him,  and  would  have  killed  him  by 
poison — or  somehow — but  has  a fit  at  a crisis  and  spoils  it,  and  is  afraid 
to  try  again.  Then  he  gets  both  up  to  London  in  the  Plague,  and  gets 
the  brother  shut  into  an  infected  house,  and  not  allowed  out  by  the  Authori- 
ties— he  pretends  he’s  sorry — all  sorts  of  fun  ! ’ 

Later,  when  it  was  pointed  out  to  him  that  there  were  two 
battles  of  Sole  Bay,  one  in  1665  and  one  in  1672,  he  confessed 
that  he  was  not  quite  clear  to  which  he  had  intended  to  refer. 

‘ Of  course  my  story  used  history  as  it  liked  . . . the  fact  is 
I have  always  taken  full  advantage  of  the  painter’s  and  the 
poet’s  quidlibet  audendi — and  I shall  continue  on  the  same 
lines.  What  use  is  History  if  one  may  not  pervert  it  in  Fiction. 
After  all,  one  does  the  same  by  Fact ! ’ 

But  the  crux  of  the  story,  he  always  maintained,  lay  in 
the  fact  that  the  beauty  and  innocence  of  Lucinda  remained 
untarnished  by  her  contact  with  her  betrayer,  till  the  purity 
of  her  own  soul  ennobled  the  baseness  of  Oliver.  * The  bits 
[ like  best,’  he  said,  * are  the  incidents  at  Kipps  Manor ; but 
the  chief  point  of  the  story  is  the  fact  that  Oliver  falls  in  love 
with  his  victim,  and  is  comically  afraid  that  his  love  for  her 
will  not  grow  cold  soon  enough  not  to  prove  an  embarrassment 
when  she  finds  out,  as  she  eventually  must,  that  he  killed  her 
father.  ...  I am  constantly  surprised  that  Sir  Oliver  doesn’t 
make  Lucinda  sick  of  him — but  then  I am  alive  to  the  difference 
between  her  and  myself.  Won’t  she  hate  him  neither,  one  of 
these  days  ! ’ 

Before  its  publication  he  wrote  to  Heinemann : — 

* I see  an  advantage  in  bringing  out  now  a distinct  variation  on  the 
three  published,  and  filling  out  an  interim.  The  Press  will  probably  let 
Iv  at  it.  But  when  the  one  I am  two -thirds  through  comes,  they  will 


‘BLIND  JIM  ’ AND  • LUCINDA  9 333 

say  : " Mr.  De  Morgan  has  done  wisely  to  take  our  advice,  and  return  to 
his  old  muttons.”  * 

And  the  Press  did  * let  fly  at  it/  The  novel,  both  in  matter 
and  manner,  was  a complete  departure  from  all  De  Morgan's 
previous  work,  and,  as  such,  was  received  by  the  public  with 
undisguised  disappointment  and  abuse.  ‘ A perfectly  good 
cat  that  I have  found  in  the  literary  ashpan,'  observes  one  critic 
with  a fine  literary  sense ; ‘ it  differs  from  everything  that  has 
come  to  us  previously  from  the  author's  pen,  as  lifeless  clay 
differs  from  living  spirit.’  Not  only,  to  the  annoyance  of  his 
readers,  had  De  Morgan  abandoned  the  Victorian  period,  his 
cockneyism,  his  colloquialism,  and  what  a reviewer  called  ‘ his 
usual  philosophic-humorous-reminiscent  vein  ' which  they  had 
learnt  to  look  for  from  his  pen  and  to  delight  in,  but,  with  a 
versatility  wholly  unexpected,  he  had  adopted  the  speech,  the 
mannerisms,  the  perspective  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and 
therewith  had  woven  a prose-poem,  romantic,  sombre  and 
powerful. 

‘ Possibly  it  is  his  finest  work,’  wrote  Mr.  Ellis  in  the  Fort- 
nightly. ‘ It  is  not  an  historical  romance  in  the  ordinary  sense 

of  the  word  . . . it  is  an  historical  picture  of  the  time  it  relates 
to,  and  I know  of  no  other  work  of  fiction  in  this  category,  except 
Esmond,  which  has  so  much  “atmosphere”  about  it,  for  the 
characters  not  only  speak  and  act  but  think  in  the  manner  of 
their  period.  ...  It  is  like  a bizarre  dream  from  the  past, 
suggested  and  accompanied  by  some  electrical  storm  outside  in 
the  night.’ 

Yet  when  some  one  described  this  book  to  De  Morgan  as  a 
tour  de  force , with  his  usual  diffidence  he  replied  doubtfully, 

‘ Say,  rather,  a tour  de  faiblesse.’  Ultimately,  however,  the 
reviewers  discovered  that  ‘ It  is  just  what  we  should  have  expected 
of  De  Morgan — the  Unexpected  ' ; while  it  sold  with  a rapidity 
which  out-distanced  its  predecessors,  and  soon  carried  conviction 
of  its  success  to  the  mind  of  its  author. 

* Ain’t  I satisfied  neither  with  the  Press  notices  ! ’ De  Morgan  wrote 
to  Heinemann  later.  ‘ See  the  beauty  of  a surprise.  If  Byron  had  written 
a Railway  Guide  and  Bradshaw  an  Epic  poem,  each  would  have  sold 
quicker  than  type  would  permit  ! 

‘ I only  believe  in  one  thing  that  helps  the  circulation  of  books — their 
contents  apart,  of  course.  It  is  heated  controversy  in  the  Press  about 
their  merits.  I should  read  the  book  the  Spectator  and  the  Academy  came 
to  blows  about,  though  I might  go  no  further  than  deciding  to  read  the 
one  both  praised.’ 

So  strong  was  his  conviction  on  this  point,  however,  that 
he  wrote  a scathing  review  of  his  own  book,  and  was  with  diffi- 
culty dissuaded  from  publishing  it.  One  incident,  however, 
connected  with  this  story  interested  him  greatly. 


334 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


In  An  Affair  of  Dishonour  a large  portion  of  the  plot  takes 
place  on  the  desolate  coast  of  Suffolk,  in  the  salt  marshes  north 
of  Dunwich,  an  eerie,  solitary  region,  where  De  Morgan  depicted 
the  imaginary  house  Kipps  Manor  to  which  Oliver  took  Lucinda. 
After  reading  De  Morgan’s  graphic  description  of  this  place  and 
its  surroundings,  several  correspondents  at  once  wrote  to  point 
out  that  the  Manor  in  question  had  been  identified  as  The  Stone 
House  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Suffolk  marshland ; and  to 
Mr.  Ellis,  who  discussed  the  question  in  the  Fortnightly , De 
Morgan  replied  : — 

‘ Over  forty  years  ago  I spent  a month  at  Southwold,  and 
heard  all  about  Dunwich  and  the  ancient  port,  and  saw  and 
enjoyed  the  neighbourhood.  I must  have  retained  a vivid 
recollection  of  what  I saw,  having  not  only  succeeded  in  the 
landscape,  but  popped  a house  down  on  it  that  is  pure  inven- 
tion ! . . . I ought  to  try  to  identify  Kipps  Manor ; I have 
no  doubt  that  it  is  somewhere  there  and  that  the  whole  thing 
happened.  The  Stone  House  at  Dingle  looks  so  very  likely. 
It  is  the  very  place  that  was  hanging  in  my  mind  at  the  time 
of  writing — only  I am  absolutely  sure  that  I never  visited  it.’ 

About  this  time  De  Morgan  was  asked  to  pronounce  an 
opinion  on  what  he  termed  ‘ another  “ Affair  of  Dishonour,”  ’ 
the  exclusion  of  women  from  the  franchise.  Long  years  before, 
in  his  bachelor  days,  discussing  the  question  with  a lady,  also 
unmarried,  he  had  suggested  a happy  solution.  ‘ I think  none 
but  married  people  should  have  votes.  Then,  at  a General 
Election,  the  married  people  who  hadn’t  got  on  together  would 
vote  on  opposite  sides ; and  thus  the  world  would  come  to  be 
governed  by  married  people  who  did  get  on  together ; and  who, 
after  all,  are  not  the  worst  part  of  the  Community ! Thus,  by 
a process  of  natural  selection,  the  governing  body  would  be  all 
the  contented,  amiable  people  ! ’ 

But  at  a date  when  the  question  was  rending  the  social  and 
political  world  with  a rancour  now,  happily,  of  the  past,  for 
some  time  he  maintained  silence.  In  answer  to  a solemn  petition 
that  he  would  throw  the  weight  of  his  verdict  into  the  scale  in 
favour  of  the  feminine  vote,  he  responded  boyishly,  ‘ I can’t 
mix  myself  up  in  matters  political — I should  bust ! ’ Never- 
theless, deeply  interested  in  the  question,  as  his  parents  had 
been  before  him,  he  held  it  to  be  ‘ a definite  question  of  right 
and  wrong,’  and  some  of  his  royalties  found  their  way  into 
the  coffers  of  the  W.S.P.U. 

‘ The  plain,  bald  truth  [he  wrote]  is  that  Man,  Nature’s  “ last  work  who 
seemed  so  fair,”  seems  to  have  fallen  rather  below  the  mark  in  fairness  in 
this  matter,  and  in  fact  to  cut  a very  sorry  figure.  The  " Splendid  purpose 
in  his  eyes  ” seems  to  have  been  the  purpose  of  devoting  money  taken 


* BLIND  JIM  * AND  * LUCINDA  ' 


335 


from  the  reluctant  pockets  of  women  to  helping  the  democracy,  of  which 
he  is  sole  demos,  out  of  a difficulty,  and  depriving  them  of  any  share  in 
the  rights  and  privileges  he  has  claimed  for  himself  in  return.  Let  him 
free  himself  from  this  iniquity  ! ’ 

And  even  when  the  destruction  of  the  contents  of  pillar- 
boxes proved  a shock  to  his  peace-loving  nature,  while  depre- 
cating the  manoeuvres  of  the  militant  suffragists,  he  viewed  the 
matter  without  any  sex-bias. 

* I am  well  aware  [he  wrote]  that  an  attempt  to  burn  down  a theatre — 
if  made  by  a sane  person — deserves  to  be  condemned  as  diabolical.  At 
any  rate,  I condemn  it  as  such  myself.  But  I am  not  aware  that  the 
ignition  of  Nottingham  Castle  had  any  claim  to  be  considered  celestial, 
and  that  was  the  example  held  up  by  implication  as  a legitimate  proof  of 
the  political  earnestness  for  the  franchise  of  males  desirous  of  a share  in 
the  management  of  their  own  affairs  ! ’ 

Finally,  unable  any  longer  to  hold  silence,  he  vented  his 
opinions  unhesitatingly  in  the  Press,  while  to  Mr.  Lansbury  he 
wrote  a letter,  the  conclusion  of  which  struck  a note  destined 
to  be  tragically  prophetic : — 

* . . . One  word  more  on  another  point.  A flagrant  injustice,  due  to 
the  exclusion  of  women  from  the  electorate  has  to  my  thinking  received 
less  attention  than  it  deserves. 

‘ I refer  to  men’s  justification  of  a monopoly  of  legislation  on  the 
ground  that  military  service  falls  solely  on  them.  Man,  in  England, 
boasts,  somewhat  loudly,  of  his  superiority  in  this  respect.  But  he  won’t 
submit  to  Conscription,  not  he  ! — that  is  “ un-English  ” ; — still  he  is 
ready  to  die,  if  necessary,  facing  fearful  odds,  for  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 
and  the  temples  of  his  gods.  It  won’t  come  to  that,  however,  he  feels 
confident,  because  there’s  the  Home  Fleet,  and  Tommy  Atkins  and  the 
Territorials  are  quite  strong  enough  to  give  a good  account  of  any  straggling 
expedition  that  gets  past  that  obstacle.  He  will  never  be  called  on  to 
give  an  exhibition  of  his  prowess.  Meanwhile  his  conscience  is  clear, 
for  he  pays  the  piper  ! 

* Does  he  ? Ask  Mr.  Lloyd  George,  whom  I suppose  to  be  the  meta- 
phorical piper  in  this  case,  what  share  of  the  bawbees  in  his  sporran  have 
come  from  the  pockets  of  women. 

* At  least  let  the  wives  and  mothers  of  the  proposed  corpses  in  the  next 
War  have  a voice  in  the  National  decisions  that  relate  to  it  ! Let  them 
have  their  say  in  a system  which  bids  fair — if  the  Devil  breaks  loose  again 
in  Europe — and  I don't  trust  him  ! — to  send  their  husbands  and  sons  to 
be  shot  down  like  a battue  of  pheasants,  before  they  have  learnt  to  handle 
a gun. 

‘ At  any  rate,  do  not  let  us  be  influenced  by  considerations  which  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  subject.  Forget  those  pillar-boxes  ! * 


CHAPTER  XV 


•UNLIKELY  STORIES  * AND  * GHOSTS  * 
1910-19x4 

AMONG  the  letters  which  reached  De  Morgan  in  1910  was 
one  from  a former  schoolmate  of  whom  he  had  lost  sight 
during  half  a century,  and  who  on  hearing  from  him  wrote 
back  delightedly  : ‘You  must  know  that  since  I received  your 
letter,  I went  out  and  invested  in  five  cents’  worth  of  marbles, 
and  hunted  up  another  boy  of  my  own  age  to  have  a game — it 
so  impressed  me  with  the  feeling  that  I was  again  in  Gower 
Street ! ' Shortly  afterwards,  he  received  a letter  from  a cousin 
of  whom  he  had  lost  sight  for  a similar  period,  a son  of  his  father's 
sister  nee  Eliza  De  Morgan,  to  whom  he  wrote  in  reply : — 

William  De  Morgan  to  the  Rev. ' Augustus  De  Morgan  Hensley . 

* August  19 th,  1910. 

* My  dear  Gus, — 

‘ Fifty  years  are  nothing.  Time  is  only  an  abstraction.  I remember 
Camden  Street  now  quite  vividly — more  so  than  some  later  whereaboutses. 

‘ I can  remember  where  the  piano  stood  that  you  and  Alice  played 
duets  on,  in  the  parlour  with  3 windows  looking  out  on  the  garden.  [A 
plan  of  the  room  and  furniture  is  appended.]  Probably  you  played  the 
“ Witches  in  Macbeth  ” or  " The  Manly  Heart  with  love  o’erflowing  ” — I 
remember  both  as  strong  features  of  her  repertoire. 

I have  by  me  memorials  of  that  time  that  I believe  you  will  remember — 
two  water-colour  copies  of  my  mother’s  (at  XX).  Also  (only  it  has  gone 
to  be  repaired)  the  table  with  queer  feet  my  father  wrote  all  his  books 
at.  It  clung  to  me  through  all  my  endless  changes  of  purpose  and  employ- 
ment, and  stood  for  years  in  lumber  rooms.  Now  it  is  to  be  resuscitated 
for  me  to  try  to  write  more  novels  on. 

‘ You  know,  I dare  say,  how  queer  a life  I have  had.  It  was  towards 
the  end  of  that  Camden  St.  time  that  I was  seized  with  the  unhappy 
fancy  that  I had  a turn  for  the  Fine  Arts.  I paid  no  heed  to  the  wisest 
and  best  man  I have  ever  known — my  father  of  course — and  went  my  own 
headstrong  way.  His  words  to  me  were,  “ If  you  work  hard  and  read, 
Willy,  especially  Latin  and  Greek,  you  will  live  to  write  something  worth 
reading.  But  as  to  painting,  how  can  I tell  knowing  nothing  of  it.” 
Well  ! I went  my  own  way  and  wasted  an  odd  40  or  50  years.  All  one 
can  say  is,  things  have  turned  out  better  than  I deserved.  I put  a good 
deal  of  myself  into  Charles  Heath  in  Alice-j 'or -Short. 

‘ I have  never  heard  of  you  without  deciding  that  I must  make  an 
effort  and  put  an  end  to  our  curious  and  reasonless  divarication.  It  has 

336 


‘UNLIKELY  STORIES  * AND  ‘ GHOSTS  9 337 

been  so  with  so  many  of  my  early  associations  from  which  (or  whom)  I 
have  parted  absolutely  without  a trace  of  the  usual  tiff  that  is  responsible 
for  family  dispersal.  I think  lazy  self-absorption  in  the  fad  of  the  moment 
has  been  my  contribution  to  the  results. 

' My  books  and  the  correspondence  they  bring  remind  me  every  day 
what  a-many  links  I have  allowed  to  snap. 

* A school-fellow  of  the  Camden  Street  days  wrote  to  me  lately  from 
Canada  saying  (as  you  did)  that  I should  be  surprised  to  be  called  “ dear 
Willy  ” ; quite  fifty  years  had  passed  but  that  was  the  name  he  remembered 
me  by.  He’s  an  old  soldier,  at  Toronto.  Then,  a year  ago,  a letter  came 
to  me  from  Monte  Carlo  from  a lady  who  had  been  reading  my  books. 
She  apologized  for  writing  on  the  ground  that  her  husband  was  a second 
cousin  of  mine.  She  was  Mrs.  Underwood  French — our  grandmother’s 
sister’s  daughter-in-law.  Are  you  learned  enough  in  your  family  to  be 
able  to  feel  at  home  over  this  ? I saw  them  in  London  after.  He  also 
remembered  Camden  Street  and  Alice.  He  gave  me  a family  tree  of  the 
second  cousin  generation,  seventy  or  eighty  families  in  all- — mercy  on  us  ! 

‘ I dare  say,  though,  you  gave  up  your  mother’s  family  in  despair  if 
ever  you  tried  to  elucidate  it.  I have  a book  about  it  in  my  father’s 
handwriting  that  would  interest  you,  and  you  might  be  able  to  contribute 
traditions. 

* I used  to  hear  of  you  in  your  Haileybury  days  from  Crom  Price,  who 
was,  or  had  been,  a classical  tutor  there. 

‘ My  wife  and  I live  now  more  in  Florence  than  in  London,  but  we  have 
lost  so  many  friends  there  by  death  of  late  that  the  place  is  a sad  one, 
compared  to  what  it  was  twenty  years  since  when  we  wintered  there  first. 

‘ I am  only  just  getting  to  work  again  after  months  of  disturbance 
(my  wife’s  accident  made  hay  of  all  last  winter  and  much  spring). 

' You  have  a claim  of  seniority  (dwindling  with  time,  as  it  always 
does)  and  if  there  is  no  chance  of  you  in  Chelsea,  I must  cast  about  for 
opportunities — and  till  I find  one,  remain  in  defiance  of  those  60  years. 

* Afftly.  yours, 

* Wm.  De  Morgan. 

* Two  ancient  letters  I came  upon  to-day — one  from  our  Granny  ; the 
other,  from  my  mother,  is  one  written  to  Alice  (aged  4)  after  she  went  to  bed. 

‘ I expect  the  references  to  interest  you  as  they  do  me.  One  cannot 
use  the  word  amuse  about  old  letters.  I always  feel  sad  over  the  merriest 
of  them.’ 

It  was  not  till  the  autumn  of  1910  that  De  Morgan  and  his 
wife  were  settled  in  their  new  home,  127  Church  Street,  where 
they  had  characteristically  purchased  two  old  houses,  and  at 
great  expense  and  unnecessary  trouble  turned  them  into  one 
somewhat  inconvenient  new  one.  When  a friend  condoled 
with  them  on  the  loss  of  the  loved  and  vanished  Vale,  De  Morgan 
at  once  replied  contentedly : 4 We  have  decided  not  to  take 
that  view  at  all.  We  walk  there  sometimes  and  are  very  much 
interested  in  what  is  going  on.  The  mulberry  trees  belonging 
to  our  old  garden  are  still  standing.* 

Further  to  reconcile  them  to  their  new  surroundings,  they 
had  purchased  an  Angelus.  Both  passionately  fond  of  music, 
and  insatiable  attendants  at  concerts,  neither  could  spare  the 
time  necessary  to  become  musicians ; therefore  despite  his 
life-long  devotion  to  the  Waldstein  Sonata,  De  Morgan,  playing 

Y 


338  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

on  his  new  acquisition  daily,  declared  that  it  had  first  revealed 
Beethoven  to  him.  To  Professor  Mackail  he  wrote : — 

4 127  Church  Street, 

* Sept.  19 th,  1910. 

* My  dear  Jack, — 

‘ I thought  you  weren’t  back — (I  hope  your  qualifications  will  en- 
able you  to  appreciate  that  couplet).  So  I have  not  been  round  your  way. 

‘ We  have  got  settled  in  here  at  last,  i.e.,  we  have  got  to  the  period  in 
which  the  electric  bells  begin  to  get  out  of  order.  The  hot  water  apparatus 
hasn’t  begun  transgressing  yet — it  will.  . . . 

‘ You  must  come  along  some  day  next  week  and  see  the  house. 

* You  must  promise  not  to  look  at  our  Angelus  we’ve  bought,  only 
that  mustn’t  be  held  to  imply  any  contract  on  my  part  not  to  look  at  your 
Angela. 

4 I am  glad  you  are  looking  me  out  blunders  in  a A.F.O.D.  [An  Affair 
of  Dishonour ] — there  are  plenty.  A little  before  the  last  re-issue  of 
I.N.C.H.A.  [It  Never  Can  Happen  Again]  I sent  off  forty-two  correc- 
tions of  slips,  large  and  small.  This  book  will  sell  more  than  the  others. 

* Our  loves  to  you — extremely. 

* Yours  faithfully,  and  no  ’umbugging, 

4 Wm.  De  Morgan.’ 

Later  he  wrote  to  Miss  Holiday  : * We  have  got  a new  Erard 
for  the  Pianola  to  play  on — the  P.  much  prefers  it  to  its  first 
love  1 ; and  Miss  Holiday,  going  to  inspect  the  new  acquisition, 
wrote  of  this  visit : — 

* I was  having  luncheon  with  them  at  the  time  when  the 
Crippen  murder  was  engrossing  public  attention.  It  certainly 
was  as  Dickens  says  “ a highly  popular  murder,”  but  I thought 
it  extremely  horrid  and  avoided  the  long  reports  of  it ; so  that 
it  gave  me  rather  a shock  to  find  De  Morgan  as  keenly  interested 
in  it  as  anyone,  till  I suddenly  realized  that  to  him,  the  great 
novelist,  it  presented  itself  as  an  enormously  interesting  study, 
both  in  regard  to  its  motive  and  its  execution.  I remember 
we  had  some  jugged  rabbit  for  luncheon  ; it  was  rather  a mys- 
terious dish,  but  not  unpalatable  ; De  Morgan,  however,  took  a 
great  dislike  to  it,  vowing  that  Crippen  must  have  had  a hand 
in  providing  its  dismembered  ingredients ; and  referred  to  it 
afterwards  in  a letter  in  very  abusive  and  apologetic  terms.' 

William  De  Morgan  to  Winifred  Holiday. 

* Nov.  15th,  1910. 

* My  dear  Winnie, — 

4 The  reason  I am  hurrying  off  the  volumes  I tried  to  inflict  upon 
you  is  that  I really  seriously  do  want  to  hear  that  you  have  survived  the 
garbage  you  got  to  eat  here. 

4 I say  it  was  cat.  Do  write  and  say  you  are  doing  well. 

4 I have  just  made  such  a good  joke — like  them  your  daddy  and  me 
and  poor  Simeon  Solomon  used  to  make  in  the  days  of  old. 

* Q.  Why  is  the  Seine  unlike  any  other  river  ? 

* Ans.  Because  it’s  never  the  Seine  two  days  together. 

* Of  course  you’ll  try  to  make  believe  that  this  is  along  of  that  there 
Angelus. 


•UNLIKELY  STORIES’  AND  ‘GHOSTS’ 


339 

* Nov.  1 8th. 

* It  turns  out  that  a “ Scotch  Hare  ” (which  was  the  cat)  is  a specimen 
of  rabbit  that  the  best  of  cooks  may  jug  in  vain.  As  long  as  it  wasn’t 
jugged  Crippentity  I am  satisfied.  We  have  all  had  something  to  eat  since. 

4 Your  affectionate  Angelus, 

‘ William  De  Morgan.’ 

‘ I wonder  why  other  folks’  garbage  is  always  so  much  nicer 
than  our  garbage  ? ’ he  observed  tentatively  one  day,  looking 
round  his  well-covered  dinner-table.  In  regard,  however,  to 
the  interest  which  he  exhibited  in  the  Crippen  trial,  it  may  be 
remarked  that  Burke,  De  Quincey,  Tennyson,  and  Jowett  all 
frankly  admitted  the  fascination  which  they  found  in  following 
the  details  of  a great  murder  drama. 

That  same  month,  De  Morgan  was  invited  to  be  the  guest 
of  honour  at  a dinner  given  by  the  Society  of  Authors,  but 
his  distress  was  great  when  he  discovered  that  he  was  expected 
to  make  a speech.  ‘ Partly  for  physical,  partly  for  intellectual, 
and  partly  for  selfish  reasons  ’ — he  explained,  ‘ but  very  little 
for  the  last — I am  obliged  to  refuse  anything  which  involves 
speech — am  doing  so  every  day,  and  feeling  ashamed  of  myself 
and  small.’  This  time  no  plausible  means  of  escape  presented 
itself ; but  so  nervous  was  he  that  he  begged  his  wife  and  his 
relations  not  to  be  present  on  the  dreaded  evening,  lest  he  should 
disgrace  himself  by  breaking  down.  Subsequently  he  wrote  to 
his  brother-in-law : — 

William  De  Morgan  to  Spencer  Pickering,  F.R.S. 

* Nov.  27 th,  1910. 

* Dear  Spencer, — 

‘ The  dinner  was  just  like  any  other  huge  dinner,  except  that 
sometimes  the  grub  is  good,  and  other  places  are  no  criterion  of  the  Criterion 
where  it  is  always  bad. 

‘ I had  misapprehended  my  importance  in  the  concern,  and  found 
myself  painfully  conspicuous.  I am  not  used  to  the  sky. 

‘ I think  my  speech  was  a failure,  but  it  was  so  ill-delivered  that  people 
may  think  it  would  have  been  good  if  they  could  have  heard  it.  It  will 
come  out  complete  in  The  Author — that  is,  a faked  version  of  it,  as  near  as 
I could  recollect,  with  some  things  I meant  to  say  and  forgot. 

‘ I’m  very  glad  Evelyn  didn’t  go — I should  have  busted  up  altogether. 

* I complained  to  one  or  two  friends  in  the  audience,  after,  of  their 
not  making  a row  when  I stuttered,  to  drown  my  confusion.  But  they 
said,  “ We  were  so  anxious  to  hear  what  you  were  going  to  say  ! ” 

‘ Evelyn  says  I oughtn’t  to  have  burnt  a feeble  portrait  of  myself  in 
a top  hat  in  the  Graphic — but  have  sent  it  on — but  really  even  the  patience 
of  a Saint  has  its  limits.  I’m  a Saint  (I’m  something  else  if  I’m  not).’ 

A fortnight  later,  in  regard  to  an  address  delivered  by  Pro- 
fessor Mackail,  De  Morgan  wrote  enthusiastically,  echoing  once 
more,  unchanged,  the  sentiments  of  earlier  years : — 

‘ Dec.  8 th,  1910, 

4 127  Church  Street. 

‘ My  dear  Jack,— 

‘ Now  that  I’ve  been  reading  you  for  an  hour  instead  of  writing  me 
I can  write  heartfelt  thanks  to  you  for  delivering  the  address  at  Birmingham. 


HO  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

* I think  if  some  dozens  of  parties  who  call  themselves  Socialists  could 
be  strangled,  I would  join  the  communion  of  the  remainder  without  pester- 
ing it  to  know  what  Socialism  is — (after  all  that  is  merely  an  Academical 
matter— and  we  don’t  know  what  anything  else  is,  to  speak  of  !).i 

* I don’t  see  anything  to  quarrel  with  in  it  as  you  seem  to  define  it 
on  P.  26  except  that  on  those  terms  so  many  people’s  Galileanism  has 
forestalled  it — and  in  two  syllables  longer  if  you  come  to  that  ! 

‘ Adieu  till  June — unless  you  come  to  Florence — we  can  put  you  up, 
as  Christie  and  Manson  said  to  the  modern  picture. 

* Margot’s  and  yours  affectionately, 

' Wm.  De  Morgan.’ 

The  Christmas  which  followed  was  the  first  De  Morgan  had 
spent  in  England  for  many  years,  but  his  health  no  longer 
gave  cause  for  anxiety.  For  six  months,  however,  owing  to 
the  unsettled  conditions  consequent  upon  his  change  of  home, 
he  had  been  unable  to  write  a line  : ‘ A really  good  thing ! ' 
he  explained,  ‘ as  during  the  last  five  years  I have  published 
over  a million  and  a quarter  words  ! ' Throughout  1911,  while 
working  at  a long  novel  which  he  had  for  some  time  had  on  hand, 
at  Heinemann’s  request  he  prepared  for  the  Press  a short  book 
which,  at  first  called  Bianca , was  finally  published  in  1912  under 
the  title  of  A Likely  Story . 4 Compared  with  Joe  it  is  a mere 

anecdote,’  he  wrote  cheerfully,  ‘ to  my  thinking,  the  shortness 
of  the  story  should  cover  a multitude  of  sins.’  It  had,  in  fact, 
been  originally  intended  by  him  for  a Magazine  article,  but, 
elaborated  with  fresh  material,  it  had  some  years  previously  been 
shown  to  Mr.  Lawrence,  whose  adverse  criticism  drew  from  its 
author  the  most  cordial  gratitude. 

* As  to  the  actual  story,’  De  Morgan  explained,  ‘ I seriously 
thought  of  calling  it  An  Experiment  in  Nonsense .’ 

‘ I have  heard  (or  shall  some  day  !)  a story  about  an  eminent 
author  who  was  discovered  weeping  on  a seat  on  Chelsea  Embank- 
ment, and  when  they  asked  him  or  her,  “ Why  do  you  weep, 
Sir  or  Madam  ? ” replied : “ Because  other  parties  don’t  like 
my  tit-bits,  Ohonarie  ! ” I believe  he  really  voiced  the  experi- 
ence of  a-many  book  butterflies  of  my  sort ! I’ll  tell  you  which 
bits  I really  liked  in  this  piece  of  gammon,  (1)  Sairah  [the  maid 
of  all  work]  ; (2)  Sir  Stopleigh’s  family  reminiscences ; (3) 
Madoline’s  talks  with  the  dawg.’ 

One  thing,  however,  in  connexion  with  this  book  puzzled 
him  greatly.  ‘ I am  anxious  to  dress  one  of  the  characters  in 
a coat  which  will  denote  affluence,’  he  said,  ‘ so  I went  into  a 
fur-shop  to  ask  if  a musquash  coat  was  expensive  for  me  to  give 
my  heroine ; and  the  Zoological  knowledge  of  the  shopkeepers 
astonished  me.  What  sort  of  animal  is  a ‘ seal-coney/  or  a 
mole-musquash  ? and,  above  all,  what  is  a ‘ coney-leopard  ’ ? 

The  present  writer  explained  these  knotty  points  to  the 
best  of  her  ability.  De  Morgan,  it  should  be  mentioned,  had, 
on  occasions,  compared  her  to  Miss  Larkins  who  * had  a bright 


‘UNLIKELY  STORIES  * AND  ‘ GHOSTS  ' 341 

taste  in  bonnets ' ; and  when  the  first  copy  of  A Likely 
Story  reached  her,  it  bore  the  inscription  in  the  author’s  writing  : — 

' From  a seal-colour  musquash  to  a magenta  bird  of  Paradise  .’ 

This  novel,  which  was  dedicated  to  1 The  Scientific  Enquirer,’ 
has  been  described  as  ‘ a compound  of  satire  and  the  super- 
natural.' To  that  section  of  the  public  who  had  complained 
bitterly  of  the  absence  in  An  A ffair  of  Dishonour  of  the  ' Early 
Victorianism  ’ and  the  ‘ suburbanity  ’ which  had  proved  such 
a great  attraction  in  his  previous  works,  A Likely  Story  is  de- 
scribed by  the^author  as  an  ‘ honest,  if  humble  attempt,  to  satisfy 
all  parties.  ...  It  combines  on  one  canvas  the  story  of  a family 
incident  that  is  purely  Victorian  with  another  of  the  Italian 
cinquecento,  without  making  any  further  demand  on  human 
powers  of  belief  than  that  a picture  is  made  to  talk.  I have  also 
introduced  a very  pretty  suburb,  Coombe,  as  the  residence  of 
the  earliest  Victorian  Aunt,  to  my  thinking,  that  my  pen  is 
responsible  for.  . . .’  Both  this  aunt  and  niece,  it  may  be 
added,  served  to  furnish  a delicate  piece  of  satire  upon  the  tone 
adopted  by  many  women  of  that  date  towards  those  who  differed 
from  themselves  on  the  vexed  question  of  female  suffrage,  especi- 
ally ‘ Aunt  Priscilla,’  who,  able  to  define  to  a nicety  the  proper 
sphere  of  her  sex,  ‘ objected  to  anyone  leaving  the  groove,  even 
with  the  motive  of  pushing  others  back  into  it.’ 

Nevertheless,  despite  many  exquisite  bits  of  writing,  the 
book,  as  a whole,  was  unconvincing.  The  constant  intrusion 
of  modern  life  and  modern  remarks  into  an  atmosphere  highly 
charged  with  a grim  medievalism  seemed  to  interrupt  the  most 
absorbing  part  of  the  narrative,  and,  despite  the  ingenuousness 
of  the  telling,  to  militate  against  its  realism.  The  fact  was  that 
the  ‘ trail  ’ of  the  reviewer  ‘ was  over  it  all.’  The  author,  in  an 
amiable  anxiety  to  please  the  Press  and  the  Public,  was  en- 
deavouring to  mould  his  talent  to  suit  the  ‘ many-headed.’  ‘ A 
slump  from  a quarter  to  a twentieth  of  a million  words  marks  a 
powerful  self-restraint  on  the  part  of  my  “ cacoethes  scribendi,”  ’ 
he  urged.  ‘ I do  not  understand  that  anyone  has,  so  far,  pro- 
pounded the  doctrine  that  a short  story  cannot  be  too  short ! ’ 
In  extenuation  of  the  improbability  of  the  tale  he,  however, 
pointed  out  ‘ what  a flat  tragedy  Hamlet  would  have  been 
without  its  fundamental  ghost,’  and  he  pleaded  for  ‘ like  rights 
for  the  tittlebat  and  the  leviathan.’  In  consequence  he  received 
several  letters  addressed  to  ‘ William  Tittlebat  De  Morgan,’  one 
of  which  remarks : * There  is  one  quality  which  I am  sure  no 
novel  of  yours  will  ever  lack  ; I mean  its  “ de  Morganism — shall 
I write  it  “ dem-Organism  ” ? — and  so  long  as  it  is  dem-organic, 
I don’t  much  mind  what  other  qualities  its  possessor  lacks,  as  I, 
personally,  suffer  from  chronic  De  Morganitis.’ 


342  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

Two  events  of  this  year  were  a great  pleasure  to  him — one 
was  that  in  Florence,  in  April,  he  met  his  hitherto  unknown 
correspondent  and  critic,  Professor  Phelps ; the  other  that,  in 
the  following  October,  he  at  last  made  the  acquaintance  of  his 
literary  godson,  Mr.  Louis  Joseph  Vance.  ' I was  beginning 
to  wonder  what  had  become  of  my  old  correspondent ! ’ he 
wrote  joyfully  on  receiving  the  news  of  Mr.  Vance’s  presence 
in  London.  4 Don’t  call — come  to  dinner,  and  dress  or  not 
exactly  as  convenient — we  are  the  most  elastic  people  in  Chelsea 
on  that  score  ! ’ But  Mr.  Vance  was  determined  not  to  miss 
the  chance  of  creating  a good  impression  : * I shall  pretty  myself 
up  fit  to  kill ! ’ he  rejoined. 

At  the  close  of  1912,  De  Morgan  wrote  to  Professor  Phelps  : — 

* 127  Church  Street, 

* Chelsea,  S.W., 

‘ Dec.  31,  1912. 

* My  dear  Prof.  Phelps, — 

* For  some  time  past  I have  been  wishing  you  the  happiest  and  most 
prosperous  of  Xmasses  and  New  Years  ; as  the  last  is  to  hand,  I see  no 
reason  for  observing  secrecy  any  longer,  and  send  a line  to  say  so — adding 
that  my  wishes  hold  good  for  the  remaining  365  days  of  the  year. 

* What  a funny  thing  language  is  ! To  wish  in  this  context  means  to 
express  a wish — just  as  to  believe  means  to  profess  a belief. 

* I have  nothing  to  write  about,  except  to  thank  you  cordially  for  your 
book  on  education,  though  any  book  on  that  subject  is  a standing  reproach 
on  my  bookshelves  for  my  own  want  of  it.  Since  I took  to  bookwriting 
this  want  has  been  more  and  more  borne  in  upon  me  with  every  fresh 
pen -dip  of  Stephens’s  Blue  Black — I can  fill  out  this  page  though,  with  a 
discovery  I have  made  that  will  interest  you — I have  found  that  English 
poetry  from  Chaucer  to  1750  circa  is  worth  exactly  twenty  shillings  ! 
For — listen  ! A while  back  a line  ran  into  my  head  from  a buried  past : 

“ The  ratiocinations  specious 
Of  Aristotle  and  Smiglesius  ” ; 

and,  although  some  one  said  Hudibras,  I said  Swift,  and  got  at  the  Dean’s 
poems  to  prove  it,  but  failed — couldn’t  find  it ! — -was  set  a-thinking  of 
Anderson’s  British  Poets  in  my  father’s  library — wished  I had  a copy 
now — set  a bookseller  to  hunt  me  up  a copy,  who  found  me  one,  for  one 
pound , in  the  original  board,  with  rough  uncut  edges,  that  had  apparently 
been  book-shelved  since  it  left  the  printers — not  a page  spoiled  ! I opened 
at  hazard — Swift’s  Poems,  and  before  my  eyes  the  italics  “ Homo  est 
ratione  praeditum  ! ” next  door  to  the  above  couplet.  Now  wasn’t  that 
a funny  chance  ? 

* What  were  the  odds  when  a century  and  more  ago  some  fox-hunting 
squire  put  that  book  up  in  his  library  to  help  him  towards  Parnassus,  that 
I should  be  the  first  to  open  the  copy  ? However,  thereat  speculation 
stands  aghast. 

‘ Excuse  this  new  year’s  nonsense — and  accept  best  of  wishes  from 
self  and  wife  for  1913. 

* Yours  always, 

‘ Wm.  De  Morgan.’ 

About  this  date  De  Morgan  was  also  much  interested  to  meet 
Mrs.  E.  M.  Ward,  the  mother  of  Sir  Leslie  Ward,  who  had  been  a 
resident  in  Fitzroy  Square  during  the  period  when  he  had  been 


‘UNLIKELY  STORIES'  AND  4 GHOSTS  * 343 

working  at  stained  glass  in  the  basement  of  No.  40.  4 It  is  funny 

to  me,'  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Ellis,  respecting  this  meeting,  4 to  think 
that  Fitzroy  Square  was  over  five  years  t’other  side  of  half-way 
back  to  my  baby  recollections  of  Fordhook — say  1845 — 1870 — 
1912 — very  rough  figures.’  Yet  such  unavoidable  recognition 
of  the  advance  of  4 dull  Eld ' engendered  but  little  regret  on  his 
part,  even  as  he  continued  to  contemplate  with  unruffled  equa- 
nimity the  prospective  approach  of  that  companion  Form  4 with 
Darkness  round  its  brows.'  4 1 shall  burn  out  without  spitting 
and  fizzing,  I hope,'  he  makes  one  of  his  fictitious  characters 
remark  contentedly.  4 Still,  it’s  one  of  the  quarrels  I have  with 
my  Creator  that,  with  all  the  unlimited  resources  of  Omnipo- 
tence, He  could  not  contrive  some  less  awkward  and  repulsive 
way  of  winding  up  Life  than  Death.  And  to  make  matters 
worse,  one  is  decently  interred.  It  is  no  use  pretending  that 
God  did  not  make  undertakers,  because  they  have  just  as  good 
a claim  to  be  considered  His  Creatures  as  Members  of  Society  ! ' 
And  again  in  this  connexion  he  wrote  : — 

‘ I long  ago  gave  up  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  diseases’  names. 
There  are  really  only  two  sorts,  those  that  kill,  and  those  that  permit 
of  a modus  vivendi.  I prefer  the  first.  The  modus  is  never  a comfortable 
one  for  their  . . . client — suppose  we  say — however  satisfactory  to  them- 
selves. But  what  fun  it  would  be  to  be  a pain  in  the  head  of  somebody 
one  hated  ! How  one  would  come  on,  and  get  worse,  and  never  yield 
to  treatment  I ’ 

Meanwhile  throughout  the  winter  of  1912-13,  he  was  working 
wearily  at  a novel  which  seemed  to  him  interminable.  4 One 
volume  is  past  praying  for ! ' he  wrote  to  Heinemann,  4 but  by 
all  means  let  us  pray  ! I think  I shall  take  to  writing  Magazine 
Serials  with  lots  of  Pirates  and  Revolvers.’  Later  he  pointed 
out : 4 It  can  never  pay  you  at  six  bob.  It  is  really  the  equivalent 
of  three  six-bobbers.  ...  It  is  too  long  for  its  merits.’  At 
last  he  observed  in  desperation  : 4 I really  think  this  awful 
book  had  better  be  hung  up  until  some  way  presents  itself  of 
dealing  with  it.  . . . You  know  what  1 should  do — I should 
print  a shilling  sample  and  issue  the  remainder  if  called  for ! ’ 

The  story  in  question,  which  was  then  called  The  Twins  of 
Darenth  Mill,  turns  on  the  separation  for  sixty  years  of  twin 
sisters,  and  their  discovery  as  octogenarians  that  each  had  been 
deceived  by  a dastardly  trick  into  thinking  the  other  dead.  The 
subsidiary  characters,  the  beautiful  Lady  Gwen  and  her  lover ; 
the  elder  couple,  the  Honble.  Percy  Pellew  and  Miss  Smith- 
Dickensen ; the  inhabitants  of  Ancaster  Towers,  from  Lady 
Ancaster  downwards  ; the  denizens  of  Sapp’s  Court — Uncle  Mo’, 
the  old  prize-fighter,  Aunt  M’riar,  his  meek  daughter,  married 
to  the  villain  of  the  piece,  Mr.  Wix  of  many  aliases,  the  little 
children  Dave  and  Dolly,  in  whose  tiny  hands  are  the  threads 
of  Destiny ; even  Julia,  the  barmaid,  and  Michael  Ragstroar,  the 


344  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

inimitable  street  gamin,  all  were  instinct  with  life  and — so  thought 
many — with  immortality.  But  De  Morgan,  weary  :vith  the 
strain  of  eight  years’  incessant  work,  could  see  no  good  in  the 
production,  of  which  he  said  that  he  had  written  30,000  words 
before  any  plot  unfolded  itself  ; and  the  necessity  for  compression 
harassed  him. 

William  De  Morgan  to  William  Heinemann. 

‘ July  12 th,  1913. 

* I can’t  tell  you  how  grateful  I am  to  you  for  wading  all  through  this 
enormous  book.  It  is  an  indescribable  relief  to  me  to  have  the  detailed 
impression  of  another  mind. 

* I go  rather  further  than  you  do  in  the  same  direction.  I want  the 
whole  book  rewritten,  with  another  subject. 

‘ The  difficulty  is,  not  in  amputating  the  hands  of  Briareus,  but  in 
taking  up  the  arteries.  And  it  is  an  instance  in  which  no  author’s  morti- 
fied vanity  can  come  in — the  seeming  superfluity  of  Mrs.  Tapping  and  Mrs. 
Riley.  There — I can  cut  them  out  easily  1 

‘ But  I shrink  from  Chapter  XXXIII. 

* As  for  the  Dickensen-Pellew  business,  they  could  be  ripped  out — by 
Michaelmas  perhaps  ! — I have  no  personal  objection  to  their  coming  out 
as  I could  make  a story  of  them,  and  use  everything.  But  I have  3 objec- 
tions otherwise — thus  : 

* (1)  The  removal  of  the  contrast  between  the  two  ways  of  making 
love  would  damage  the  story. 

* (2)  I want  them  as  explanatovies  in  the  tag-end  chapter. 

‘ (3)  My  wife  is  devoted  to  them — says  they  are  one  of  the  best  parts.1 

‘ Let  us  face  the  abominable  fact  boldly  ! I have  written  a beastly 
book  that  won’t  go  into  one  volume.  To  reduce  it  (to  one  vol.  point)  is 
a more  troublesome  task  by  far  than  writing  a new  book,  and  would 
take  longer. 

‘ I believe  the  underlying  fact  to  be  that  the  subject  is  essentially 
impossible.  It  is  an  experiment  that  has  failed.  I suggest  hanging  it 
up — and  if  it  ever  comes  out  it  should  be  under  the  title  of  " An  Unpub- 
lished Novel.”  ’ 

The  subsequent  progress  of  the  work  is  marked  by  a series 
of  running  comments  also  addressed  by  the  author  to  the  pub- 
lisher. 

1 August  5 th.  I am  just  grinding  out  the  pages  of  this  d — d story. 

* August  10 th.  If  brought  out  as  two  books  it  can  run  thus  : 

The  Twins  of  Darenth  Mill. 

Vol.  I.  A Shortage  of  Mud. 

Vol.  II.  When  Ghost  meets  Ghost. 

* By  doing  this  we  shall  avoid  the  odd  titles  as  the  current  description 
of  the  book,  and  yet  it  will,  to  my  thought,  benefit  by  their  rumness. 
They  are  strictly  in  order,  as  the  whole  evolution  of  things  turns  on  that 
dollop  of  clay  in  the  second  chapter,  and  the  purpose  of  the  book,  if  any, 
turns  on  the  resemblance  of  the  two  old  ladies  to  a pair  of  chance  Cimerians, 
old  acquaintances  on  this  side  of  Styx,  who  turn  up  on  t’other. 

' I well  weighed  your  suggestion  of  removing  the  Pellews,  but  found 

1 * The  love-affairs  of  the  Hon.  Percy  Pellew  and  Miss  Smith-Dickenson 
attain  a plane  of  high  comedy  worthy  of  George  Meredith  at  his  best.’— 
Criticism  in  The  Times. 


Helen  of  Troy 

‘"Was  this  the  face  that  launched  a thousand  ships 
And  burnt  the  topmost  towers  of  Ilium?” 

Painted  by  Evelyn  De  Morgan  in  1898. 

[In  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Stirling. 


‘UNLIKELY  STORIES’  AND  'GHOSTS’  345 

the  task  of  doing  so  would  be  too  stiff  for  me.  It  intersects  far  more  than 
appears  on  the  surface.  My  wife  likes  the  contrast  of  the  two  courtships — 
the  respectable- tentative  and  the  headlong-decisive  one,  and  says  she 
would  have  had  a divorce  if  I had  drasticated  it. 

‘ August  22nd.  Come  to  dinner  ! It  would  give  my  wife  the  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  the  courage  of  her  opinions  that  that  blessed  book  of 
mine  won’t  bear  splitting. 

* Sept . 3rd.  I am  horribly  penitent  for  a big  blunder.  Mea  Culpa  ! 
Some  of  the  chapters  were  improperly  numbered  ! The  effect  was  that 
you  read  Chapter  20  three  chapters  too  soon.  That  is  to  say,  Pellew  carried 
the  old  woman  upstairs  three  chapters  before  the  accident  which  incapacitated 
her.  Perfectly  fatal,  I should  say. 

* Lor  bless  you  ! my  memory  isn’t  worth  the  brains  it  dwells  in  ! 

* October  26 th.  I am  so  work-struck  with  proofs,  I can’t  get  to  see  you. 
That’s  where  Euclid  had  the  best  of  us — his  proofs  needed  no  correction. 

‘ Dec.  23 rd,  1913.  I have  been  fearfully  busy  getting  to  the  end  of 
this  blessed  book  that  has  been  on  my  shoulders  for  near  two  years  past. 
It’s  done  now,  and  I feel  like  Christian  in  Pilgrim's  Progress  when  his 
burden  slipped  from  his  shoulders.  It  will  be  issued  in  February.  Very 
few  will  read  through  the  900  pages  ; but  to  hope  that  anyone  will  is  to 
wish  him  long  life.’ 

To  Mr.  Vance  at  this  date  he  wrote : — 

‘127  Church  Street, 

‘ Chelsea,  S.W., 

‘ November  13 th,  1913. 

* I have  just  read  your  book  Joan  with  great  interest  and  pleasure.  It 
seems  to  me  very  unlike  the  others  I have  of  yours.  This  one  is  much 
more  concrete,  and  one  takes  for  granted  that  it  is  Nature  that  is  reflected 
in  the  mirror,  because  of  the  force  and  vividness  of  the  reflection.  I myself 
belong  to  the  stodgy  and  fogey  circles  that  never  go  it,  and  never  can 
go  it,  in  the  nature  of  things.  So  whether  Joan  is  a possible  character  or 
all  out  of  your  own  head — how  can  I tell  ? She  convinces  me  of  herself, 
on  paper,  and  of  the  mire  of  the  stage  coulissier  in  New  York,  probably 
elsewhere.  It  is  a mere  chance  that  my  knowledge  of  the  stage  world  is 
different.  It  is  very  slight. 

‘ I have  been  very  much  amused  guessing  the  meanings  of  the  slang. 
I suppose  “ can  that  bunk”  means  “ carry  away  that  refuse  in  a can.” 
Is  that  right  ? 

‘ I have  just  completed  a long  nightmare  of  about  400,000  words.  I 
will  send  you  a copy  when  it  comes  out.  But  you  mustn’t  read  mine 
because  I read  yours  ! — that  wouldn’t  be  fair  measure.  Sample  the  first 
100,000.’ 

The  next  spring  he  wrote  : — - 

‘ I’m  so  glad  you  find  Ghosts  readable.  What  a-many  years  it  is  now 
since  I first  heard  how  I had  taken  your  name  without  knowing  it  ! 

‘ And  what  a lot  of  books  we  have  written  since  then  ! ’ 

The  new  novel  had  at  last  made  its  appearance  under  the 
title  of  When  Ghost  Meets  Ghost.  For  the  general  reader  it  was 
decided  to  compress  it  into  one  volume  (‘  the  book  too  big  and 
the  print  too  small ! * lamented  De  Morgan  ) ; but  a two  volume 
edition  was  printed  at  the  author’s  expense,  for  his  private 
satisfaction. 


346  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

' I think  the  book  may  be  going  to  be  a success,’  he  wrote 
tentatively  to  Heinemann.  ‘ Viesseux  [the  librarian  in  Flor- 
ence] is  sending  every  copy  out  with  a printed  request  that  it 
shall  be  returned  in  three  days.’ 

* Viesseux,’  rejoined  Heinemann,  * must  be  a humorist  if 
he  gives  his  clients  three  days  in  which  to  read  this  book ! ’ 

None  the  less,  the  novel  was  joyfully  hailed  by  the  public 
as  a return  to  De  Morgan’s  earlier  manner.  ‘ Long  though  the 
book  is,’  pronounced  the  Press,  1 there  is  never  a word  that 
does  not  convey  some  rousing  bit  of  characterization,  or  some 
highly  original  bit  of  humour.  . . . There  are  two  ways  of 
being  long  of  speech  : one  is  to  use  many  words  in  saying  some- 
thing of  little  interest,  the  other  is  to  have  many  interesting 
things  to  say.’  One  critic  in  far-away  Kentucky,  with  delicate 
imagination,  thus  described  the  fashion  of  the  workmanship : — 

‘ Yes,  it  is  leisurely,  and  it  requires  unlimited  leisure  to  read  it.  His 
methods  recall  those  of  a lace-maker — one  of  those  long-ago  lace-makers 
who  made  what  they  call  “ pillow-lace.”  Innumerable  little  reels  this 
lace-maker  had,  all  dangling  in  the  air  and  flying  about,  apparently  in  the 
most  inconsequent  manner,  but,  just  when  the  eye  was  dizzy  with  the 
fascination  of  following  her  glancing  hands,  lo  ! there  was  a neat  finished 
pattern,  with  every  thread  in  place.  So  does  Mr.  De  Morgan  dangle  his 
threads  with  no  visible  result  for  a long  time,  and  then,  just  when  one 
begins  to  wonder  if  anything  really  is  going  to  happen,  and  what  it  is  all 
about,  the  pattern  takes  shape  and  all  the  loose  threads  are  neatly  knotted 
into  position.’ 

Most  critics,  however,  recognized  that  it  was  impossible 
to  give  any  adequate  synopsis  of  the  plot.  ‘ Mr.  De  Morgan,’ 
wails  one  reviewer,  ‘ has  dedicated  his  new  novel  to  “ The  Spirit 
of  Fiction  ” — and  little  wonder  ! It  begins  with  Chapter  o 
and  ends,  after  many  lengthy  ones,  with  a Pendrift  on  page 
862  ! ’ But  De  Morgan  had  forestalled  the  accusation  of  pro- 
lixity. * The  omission  of  half  — he  admits  in  the  book,  with 
delightful  effrontery,  ‘ would  shorten  the  tale,  and  spare  the 
reader  so  much.  What  a very  small  book  the  History  of  the 
World  would  be  if  all  the  events  were  left  out ! ’ Furthermore 
he  decided,  ‘ It  is  sometimes  rather  flattering  to  find  that  the 
writer  of  a very  laudatory  review  hasn’t  read  the  book.  As  for 
instance  one  who  thinks  that  Mr.  Wix  married  Lady  Gwen 
and  describes  how  Uncle  Mo’  killed  the  Sweep,  Peter  Gunn.’ 
Yet  to  those  who  had  conscientiously  endeavoured  to  master 
the  intricacies  of  the  plot  he  accorded  his  profound  commisera- 
tion. . . . ‘ What  an  arduous  task  it  must  be  to  get  up  a review 
of  goo  pages  ! I don’t  wonder  critics  object  to  the  length.  I 
have  read  one  review,  a long  newspaper  column  of  small  print, 
embodying  a careful  analysis  of  the  story,  and  wondered  how 
much  the  writer,  poor  fellow,  got  for  it ! Certainly  it  should 
have  been  £5 — I suspect  it  was  nearer  £2.’ 


‘UNLIKELY  STORIES  AND  ‘GHOSTS’  347 

Within  a week  of  publication  a second  impression  of  the 
novel  was  required,  and  within  a fortnight,  a third.  ‘ The 
success  of  this  book,’  wrote  De  Morgan  on  February  21,  ‘ is 
a great  relief  to  me,  for  I felt  it  was  like  Joe  over  again — would 
be  a great  success  or  go  quite  flabby.  I have  not  seen  more 
than  three  reviews  yet,  but  one  of  those  was  The  Times — I sup- 
pose it  has  rarely  fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  author  to  read  a more 
gratifying  one — and  I am  truly  grateful  to  the  writer  of  it. 
But  he  ascribes  too  much  optimism  to  me  ! However,  I am  glad 
my  books  produce  that  effect,  because  there  are  plenty  of  the 
other  sort/ 

To  those  readers  who  were  anxious  to  identify  each  place 
and  person,  he  explained  that  Sapps  Court  where  much  of  the 
action  takes  place  was  one  of  his  own  elusive  Ghosts.  He 
remembered  it  distinctly,  as  it  was  half  a century  before,  off 
Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  described  it  as  he  recalled  it ; 
but  when  he  went  to  verify  his  description,  he  looked  for  it  in 
vain.  It  had  vanished ; and  even  its  correct  name  eluded  his 
recollection. 

Nevertheless,  the  unconscious  relation  by  him  in  fiction 
of  events  previously,  or  subsequently,  duplicated  in  real  life, 
again  occurred  in  connexion  with  this  book.  At  a moment 
when  the  Press  was  discussing  the  probability  of  the  story, 
a newspaper  cutting  was  sent  to  him  from  Indianapolis,  con- 
taining a paragraph  which  bore  the  heading  * Sisters  meet  after 
Sixty  Years.’  This  related  how  two  sisters,  Miss  Emily  Mayo, 
of  London,  and  Mrs.  Sarah  Mayo-Glasgow,  of  Galena,  had  met 
once  again  in  romantic  fashion  after  a sixty-years’  separation  : — 

‘ Mr.  William  De  Morgan,’  concluded  the  paragraph,  * writes  about 
“ impossible  things  ” which  happen  after  his  books  appear.  This  event, 
curiously  enough,  coincides  with  the  sixty-years’  separation  of  two  sisters 
which  is  the  basis  for  the  title  of  his  last  novel ; and,  strangely  too,  this 
is  only  one  of  several  instances  when  the  seeming  improbability  of  Mr.  De 
Morgan’s  fiction  has  been  confounded  by  fact  after  the  book  in  question 
appeared  ! ’ 

Among  the  letters  which  he  subsequently  received,  the 
following  greatly  interested  him  : — 

A Stranger  to  William  De  Morgan. 

' Rural  Free  Delivery  Route  I, 

* Tilton,  New  Hampshire,  U.S.A., 

‘ April  2,  1914. 

* My  dear  Sir, — 

‘ Perhaps  you  will  forgive  the  liberty  I take  in  writing  you  when 
you  hear  the  rather  unusual  way  in  which  your  books  are  read  and  loved 
in  this  family  of  two — a father  and  daughter — living  in  a kind  of  wilderness 
in  the  mountain  region  of  New  Hampshire. 

‘ We  left  a Massachussetts  city  several  years  ago — there  were  three  ol 
us  then — to  come  to  this  little  farm,  my  father’s  boyhood  home,  where 
he  wished,  as  he  said,  to  spend  his  second  childhood.  As  we  are  six 


348  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

miles  from  post  office  and  town  in  a sparsely  inhabited  hamlet,  you  can 
believe  that  books  mean  more  to  us  than  ever  before.  We  brought  a 
part  of  our  old  library  with  us,  but  fiction,  particularly  modern  fiction, 
is  hardly  represented  at  all,  as  my  father  cannot  be  induced  to  read  it — 
with  the  exception  of  Tolstoi  and  now  you.  His  reading  aloud  to  us 
consisted  chiefly  of  old  classics  with  an  occasional  Tolstoi  tale,  until 
Alice-for -Short  appeared  among  us. 

‘ Then  began  a wonderful  era.  The  days,  largely  filled  with  the 
arduous  and  perplexing  problems  of  housework,  to  which  we  were  unac- 
customed, took  on  a new  brightness — for,  every  morning,  breakfast  was 
followed  by  a reading  from  Alice-for-Short.  Brief  as  they  were  (for  we 
were  allowed  only  a few  pages  a day — though  they  grew  somewhat  longer 
as  time  went  on)  we  were  transported  into  the  enchanted  world  of  Alice 
and  Peggy  and  all  the  others.  The  reading  was  slow,  with  many  inter- 
ruptions, such  as  “ That  is  Shakespearian  ” — “ This  man  is  a wonderful 
psychologist,”  “ What  a vocabulary  he  has  ! ” “ That  is  like  De  Foe,” 

etc.  My  father’s  reading  is  always  slow,  with  many  pauses.  His  reading 
aloud  to  his  family  is  a long-established  institution,  dating  back  to  my 
earliest  childhood,  when  we  listened  to  Grimm,  /E sop's  Fables , Alice  in 
Wonderland,  tales  of  Greek  Mythology — never  more  than  one  tale  in  an 
evening.  It  is  impossible  to  tell  you  of  the  joy  this  book  Alice-for-Short 
gave  us.  It  is,  I believe,  no  exaggeration  to  say  those  readings  have 
exceeded  all  literary  pleasures  of  my  life.  During  household  duties  I 
had  the  previous  chapters  to  think  of  and  the  next  one  to  look  forward 
to.  With  no  concerts,  plays,  art  exhibitions  or  calls,  this  was  our  chief 
recreation. 

‘ There  came  a sad  day  when  the  book  was  finished,  so  can  you  imagine 
what  it  meant  for  us  to  welcome  Somehow  Good  ? — just  as  absorbing, 
original  and  enchanting  as  Alice-for-Short.  Next — for  us — came  Joseph 
Vance.  We  quoted  Christopher  Vance  as  we  had  quoted  Peggy’s  father 
and  mother.  We  laughed  and  wept  and  admired.  When,  during  An 
Affair  of  Dishonour,  some  one  made  a criticism,  the  reader  said  : “I  have 
put  myself  in  Mr.  De  Morgan’s  hands — I shall  not  find  fault  with  him.  I 
believe  in  letting  an  artist  practise  his  art  in  his  own  way.  You  remember 
the  answer  Turner  made  when  a fellow  artist  said  in  looking  at  The  Burial 
of  Sir  David  Wilkie — ‘ Haven’t  you  made  those  sails  too  black  ? ’ ‘If 
there  was  anything  blacker  than  black  I’d  use  it  ! ’ ” 

‘ It  Never  Can  Happen  Again  contained  the  masterly  portrait  of  the 
mischievous,  meddlesome  Mrs.  Eldridge.  After  A Likely  Story — with 
Sairah,  Mr.  Aiken’s  memorable  search  for  his  tube  of  transparent  Oxide 
of  Chromium  and  the  romantic  Italian  tale — we  wondered  if  Mr.  De 
Morgan  were  writing  another  novel.  While  waiting  we  had  had  Don 
Quixote,  Robinson  Crusoe,  besides  Henry  James’s  A Small  Boy  and 
Others  and  the  Charles  Eliot  Norton  Letters.  One  book  of  modern  fiction 
my  father  had  been  persuaded  to  read — but  it  was  of  no  use  to  propose 
another.  But  there  came  a Red  Letter  Day  when  a post  card  told  us  of  a 
new  De  Morgan — When  Ghost  Meets  Ghost.  We  sent  one  day  and  it  came 
two  days  later. 

‘ We  have  read  only  about  half  of  those  wonderful  pages — (only  two 
of  us  to  read  now — first  we  were  three — then  four — now  my  father  and  I 
are  alone)  I cannot  tell  you  what  these  evening  readings  are  to  us — only 
about  twelve  pages  at  a time — but  if  we  end  with  the  close  of  a chapter 
I console  myself  with  the  fascinating  synopsis  of  the  new  one. 

' Even  if  I had  the  gift  of  expressing  myself  in  writing,  which  I have 
not,  I doubt  if  I could  convey  to  anyone  the  pleasure  I have  in  your  books. 
I can  only  say  there  have  never  before  been  novels  so  delightful.  The 
beautiful  leisure  that  pervades  them — the  portrayal  of  childhood — youth — 


4 UNLIKELY  STORIES  ' AND  4 GHOSTS  ’ 349 

age — the  good  and  evil  in  your  people — the  exquisite  humour — the  high 
moral  atmosphere — the  things  one  has  observed  but  never  before  seen 
expressed — the  things  one  never  would  have  thought  of  if  you  had  not 
pointed  them  out — the  love-making — the  pathos — the  dwellers  in  slums — 
the  good  doctors — the  many  details  which  are  never  tedious — above  all 
the  charm  of  your  people  and  their  surroundings — my  father  and  I have 
felt  all  this  and  much  more.  I only  wished  to  tell  you  of  our  gratitude  for 
all  you  have  given  us  during  these  last  rather  lonely  years — and  I am  afraid 
I have  been  tedious  and  stupid. 

‘ Asking  your  forgiveness  for  the  intrusion. 

‘ I am, 

‘ Gratefully  yours, 

‘ (Miss)  Olive  Russell.’ 

William  De  Morgan  to  Miss  Olive  Russell. 

* Viale  Milton, 

‘ Florence,  Italy, 

‘ 19.4-14- 

* Dear  Madam, — 

‘ Your  letter  will  find  a special  place  among  the  many  I have 
received  from  your  countrymen.  I am  often  sorry  that  the  publication 
of  a number  of  these  would  be  so  very  egotistic — as  it  certainly  would — 
because  they  are  so  full  of  insight  into  the  rationale  of  fiction,  and  take 
so  just  a view  of  its  relation  to  its  author. 

‘ As  for  instance  what  you  tell  me  in  your  letter  of  your  father’s  reception 
of  the  Affair  of  Dishonour  ; this  has  always  been  rather  a favourite  child 
of  mine  as  it  was  very  difficult  to  rear — or  write — such  children  are — but 
it  was  worth  making  the  attempt  once  to  write  outside  my  experience. 
I may  never  try  the  experiment  again,  but  I see  nothing  to  discourage  me 
from  doing  so  in  the  comments  of  those  who  have  read  it  all  through,  so 
far  as  they  have  reached  me.  I need  not  say  that  the  opinions  of  critics 
who  mistook  it  for  an  historical  novel  have  had  no  weight  with  me.  It  is 
not  an  historical  novel  as  all  the  characters  are  imaginary. 

* Anyhow,  your  father’s  belief  in  letting  an  artist  write  in  his  own  way 
is  the  soundest  position  to  see  fiction  from,  and  I wish  the  activities  of  the 
Press  were  more  influenced  by  it. 

‘ I am  sorry  I kept  you  waiting  so  long  for  When  Ghost  Meets  Ghost. 
I had  no  intention  of  making  it  more  than  half  the  length,  but  it  got  the 
bit  in  its  teeth.  I hope  to  remain  on  this  planet  long  enough  to  finish 
another — but  who  can  say  ? 

‘ Let  me  thank  you  cordially  for  writing  such  a welcome  letter.  All 
such  letters  are  welcome  to  authors,  and  I think  none  of  them  pretend 
otherwise.  If  they  do  they  are  story-tellers — in  the  vernacular  sense. 

‘ Believe  me,  very  truly  yours, 

' William  De  Morgan.’ 

Professor  Lyon  Phelps  to  William  De  Morgan. 

* May  5 th,  1914. 

‘ Dear  Mr.  De  Morgan,— 

‘ My  wife  and  I have  each  read  every  word  of  your  Ghosts  with  the 
keenest  delight.  I really  cannot  express  my  admiration  for  the  wonderful 
skill  in  construction,  and  my  pleasure  in  becoming  acquainted  with  such 
men  and  women. 

f This  is  the  MS.  I saw  in  Florence  in  April  1912  ; — the  most  “ Demor- 
gany  ” book  of  all,  you  said  it  would  be,  and  you  were  right.  It  i9  a 
wonderful  book,  and  happy  am  I to  be  living  just  now. 

* I hope  you  are  both  happy  in  your  labours.  I wish  I could  see  you 


350  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

again,  but  we  are  not  coming  over  this  year,  and  you  won’t  come  hither,  I 
suppose.  Please  give  Mrs.  De  Morgan  our  greetings,  and  believe  me 

* Admiringly  and  affectionately  yours, 

4 Wm.  Lyon  Phelps.’ 

William  De  Morgan  to  Professor  Phelps . 

4 127  Church  Street, 

4 Chelsea,  S.W., 

4 Dear  Prof.  Phelps, — 4 May  17,  1914. 

4 1 was  much  pleased  to  get  your  letter  and  hear  that  you  had  read 
— and  survived — Ghosts.  I have  just  answered  a letter  from  a gentleman 
who  started  reading  on  March  18th  and  finished  April  21st.  And  yet  he 
wrote  to  thank  the  author  ! I do  really  feel  that  this  is  a most  good- 
natured  world. 

4 I should  think  it  must  have  been  the  one  I was  tinkering  two  years 
ago  when  you  came  to  us  on  the  Mugnone.  At  the  same  time  another 
thing  I had  been  working  on — which  I am  now  half-way  through — may 
have  been  the  exact  one,  as  it  is,  if  anything,  more  demorganatic  still — I 
hope  to  issue  it  in  (say)  1916.1 

4 We  have  left  Florence  for  good.  My  wife’s  pictures  have  almost  all 
arrived  here — and  will  live  in  a big  studio  near  by  with  no  one  to  look 
at  them  ! We  went  for  a fortnight  to  Venice,  the  most  delicious  place 
in  the  world  ! Coming  here  is  like  Stygian  gloom  after  Greece — or  was, 
till  yesterday. 

4 No, — I can’t  come  across  to  see  you,  in  spite  of  the  temptation. 
Nevertheless  I hope  we  may  meet  again  in  this  world,  and  the  next. 

4 Thank  you  very  sincerely  indeed  for  your  over-estimate  of  my  pen- 
stragglings.  My  wife  joins  in  my  affectionate  good  wishes  to  you  and  yours. 

4 Yours  always, 

4 Wm.  De  Morgan.’ 

‘ Florence  has  grown  too  melancholy  to  live  in/  wrote  De 
Morgan  at  this  date ; and  in  consequence  of  this  decision,  the 
pictures  which  his  wife  had  painted  there  were  fortunately 
conveyed  by  sea  to  England  before  the  events  which  followed 
precluded  her  returning  to  Italy.  They  consisted  of  eight 
large  canvases  and  some  smaller,  and  they  filled  the  empty 
studio  where  they  were  housed  with  a wealth  of  colour  and 
beauty ; but  when  urged  by  the  manager  of  a public  Gallery  to 
exhibit  them,  Evelyn  still  refused.  * We  have  quite  a circus 
of  her  pictures  here  now/  De  Morgan  wrote  cheerfully ; ‘ they 
are  all  very  Dr.  Thorpey  in  ideas ! ' Meanwhile  Mrs.  Fleming, 
who  had  written  many  charming  verses  on  the  early  paintings 
of  both  De  Morgan  and  his  wife,  wrote  again  on  this  later  work ; 
and  one  little  poem  has  survived  destruction.  It  describes  a 
picture  entitled  ‘ Love’s  Piping/  wherein  Love,  crowned  with 
roses,  sits  piping  on  a rock  over-hanging  a stream,  while  above 
him,  contrasting  with  his  rosy  wings,  spreads  a tree  with  a 
mass  of  delicate,  snowy  mayblossom.  On  the  opposite  bank, 
a maiden,  blind-folded,  wooed  by  the  lure  of  his  music,  is  step- 
ping to  destruction,  while  other  maidens,  garlanded  with  blossom, 
watch  her  peril  callously. 

1 The  Old  Marts  Youth  and  the  Young  Marts  Old  Age , published 
posthumously  in  1921. 


351 


•UNLIKELY  STORIES  ’ AND  4 GHOSTS  * 

Love  the  Misleader. 

* Hearken  my  piping,  and  follow  my  piping, 

The  song  that  is  new  when  the  world  is  old  } 

Hither  maiden,  that  goest  a-maying 
For  Whitethorn  silver  and  King-cup  gold. 

* Leave  your  flowers  and  leave  your  fellows. 

Follow  the  song  that  is  always  sweet  ’ ; 

And  the  Maiden  heard — for  the  distance  mellows. 

And  followed  the  piping  with  fleet,  fair  feet. 

Her  eyes  were  holden — by  Fate’s  decreeing, 

For  Love  can  see,  though  lovers  are  blind ; 

And  down  the  valley,  all,  all  unseeing 
She  followed  the  piping — a-far  in  the  wind. 

* Hither  Maiden  that  goest  a-maying  ! 

Maids  must  answer  when  Love  doth  sing. 

Find  my  place  in  the  pleasant  gloaming. 

Follow  me,  follow  me — westering  ! ’ 

Love  on  a rock,  with  a stream  below  him, 

Laughed  at  blind  feet  and  groping  hands  ; 

Waters  quench  not — for  those  who  know  him. 

They  Love’s  Chosen — his  sealed  bands. 

Nymphs  a-maying — but  none  to  save  her. 

(They  have  suffered — they  watch  and  smile.) 

Stumbling  feet  and  a pool  to  grave  her  ; 

And  Love  is  piping  and  playing  the  while. 

Earlier  that  same  year,  before  his  exodus  from  Florence, 
De  Morgan  had  read  a volume  of  reminiscences  by  his  lifelong 
friend  Henry  Holiday,  whom  he  correctly  described  as  ‘ a singu- 
lar example  of  a man  of  almost  universal  attainments.'  On 
January  16,  1914,  he  wrote  : — 

* Pawling  had  already  made  me  the  possessor  of  a complete  set  of 
proofs,  out  of  which  I had  taken  a semi-circular  bite  aM  but  as  big  as  the 
sandwich.  Evelyn  did  more.  She  read  it  from  cover  to  cover,  so  far  as 
one  can  do  before  a book  is  bound — and  lamented  when  she  came  to  the 
end — says  it  is  the  most  readable  book  she  has  had  for  a month  of  Sundays. 

* However,  I have  virtually  read  it  all  through  in  an  irregular  way  that 
my  poor  old  brain,  overtaxed  by  writing,  has  reduced  my  reading  to.  . . . 

* I like  your  preface  [advocating  peace]  enormously,  being  quite  in 
sympathy  with  all  parties  that  agree  with  the  general  sketch  of  the  Nazarene 
Party,  in  the  Borough  of  Galilee.  Only  I want  people  to  go  on  construct- 
ing ironclads  until  their  only  sensitive  organ,  the  pocket,  feels  it.  . . . 

‘ It’s  very  strange  to  read  at  this  length  of  time  such  clear  recollections 
of  that  old  Welsh  period — which  a life  full  of  troubles  has  since  made 
misty.  There  have  been  seven  deaths  in  my  family  since  then,  and  though 
some  have  not  been  definitely  tragic,  there  has  been  an  element  of  Aeschy- 
lean tragedy  in  the  story. 

‘ However,  nothing  comes  near  poor  Simeon  in  tragedy. 

* My  wife  sends  you  warm  thanks  for  the  book — but  she  envies  you 
all  you  have  seen.  So  do  I.  But  there  is  a drawback  to  a lazy-bones  like 
me.  See  how  you  have  had  to  exert  yourself.  . . . 

' I wish  all  whose  lives  have  been  so  full  and  varied  as  yours  would 
follow  your  example.  It  would  not  overload  the  planet  with  autobio- 
graphies. Indeed,  if  I could  think  it  a friendly  act  to  apply  to  a friend 


352  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

a line  of  poetry  that  won’t  parse,  I would  drag  in  “ The  man  so  various  that 
he  seemed  to  be,  not  one,  but  all  mankind’s  epitome.”  ’ 

But  the  momentary  note  of  sorrow  in  this  letter,  conjured 
up  by  the  vision  of  a happy  past  seen  through  the  haze  of  years, 
was  intensified  when  news  came  to  him  shortly  afterwards  of 
the  death  of  Mrs.  Morris,  the  friend  of  so  many  treasured  recol- 
lections. ‘ How  the  visible  and  tangible  world  has  shrunk 
[quoad  friends)  for  me  in  the  last  few  years ! ’ he  wrote  sadly. 
‘ Like  Dr.  Thorpe  I have  “ done  a good  deal  of  surviving  ” and 
find  it  sorry  work/  By  and  by  when  her  daughter  pleaded 
earnestly  that  he  would  give  any  assurance  which  lay  in  his 
power  respecting  his  own  belief  in  the  tangibility  of  that  other 
life  to  which  the  majority  of  mankind  look  forward  with  serene 
confidence,  he  wrote  with  the  simple  honesty  which  still  scorned 
both  subterfuge  and  self-deception. 

William  De  Morgan  to  May  Morris . 

' Viale  Milton, 

‘ Florence, 

* My  dear  May, — ‘ 3 rd  Feb.,  1914. 

‘ How  I do  wish  I could  write  a word  to  put  heart  into  an  old 
friend — so  old  a friend  ! — face  to  face  with  Death.  I grieve  to  have 
nothing  to  say,  that  I am  at  liberty  to  say,  beyond  that  my  own  belief 
is  fixed,  that  this  life  is  an  instalment  of  a larger  and  longer  one. 

‘ I know — or  think — your  inquiry  to  mean — “ Has  this  belief  been 
founded  on  mere  reason,  or  on  some  confirmatory  experience  ? ” My 
answer  is  that  some  small  experience  I have  had  of  apparent  communi- 
cation with  folk  on  the  other  side  must  have  had  some  weight  in  turning 
the  scale  so  decidedly.  But  it  may  have  been  very  small.  I suspect  that 
the  lifelong  faith  of  the  strongest  consecutive  reasoner  I ever  knew — my 
father — had  more  to  do  with  it  than  anything  else. 

* If  the  few  things  that  I have  met  with,  that  have  any  value,  could  be 
told  without  involving  others  than  myself,  I would  gladly  write  them  to 
you.  But  they  would  amount  to  very  little,  all  said  and  done.  I don’t 
think  that  from  all  my  experience  I could  produce  anything  so  much  to 
the  purpose  as  the  incidents  described  in  my  father’s  preface  to  my  mother’s 
From  Matter  to  Spirit,  which  you  may  have  read.  These  incidents 
need  to  be  read — to  see  their  force — with  a much  closer  attention  than  is 
commonly  given  to  things  in  print. 

* Perhaps  we  shall  die  and  after  all  be  none  the  wiser  as  to  what  Death 
means,  and  Life.  But  it  does  not  recommend  itself  to  my  understanding. 
Intense  curiosity,  and  a hope  that  this  life  is  a dream  we  wake  from,  rather 
than  Death  a sleep  we  fall  into — those  are  my  mental  conditions.’ 

Not  long  afterwards  he  was  urged  to  make  some  definite  pro- 
nouncement on  the  question  of  Psychical  research,  and  especially 
whether  his  faith  in  ‘ immortalism  ’ was  at  all  due  to  a belief  in 
Spiritualism  ; and  he  answered  his  correspondent  guardedly  : — 

' After  long  observation  of  the  way  in  which  testimony  on  the  subject 
referred  to  in  your  letter  is  generally  received,  I think  it  best  to  reserve 
whatever  experiences  I may  have  had  personally,  for  the  present  certainly, 
possibly  altogether. 

* I think  it  will  be  evident  that  I should  not  have  arrived  at  this  decision 
unless  these  experiences  had  run  counter  to  accepted  popular  conclusions. 


•UNLIKELY  STORIES'  AND  ‘GHOSTS’  353 

* I may,  however,  say  that  I have  never  wished  for  the  alteration  of 
one  word  of  the  preface  my  father  wrote  to  my  mother’s  book  From  Matter 
to  Spirit.  Also  that  I was  a personal  witness  of  the  instances  of  alleged 
communication  from  his  relatives  which  he  relates.’ 

* People/  he  said  privately,  ‘ are  settling  slowly  to  accept 
the  reality  of  these  things,  but  the  point  is  we  get  very  little 
nearer  the  cause  of  them/  As  in  his  early  days,  he  still  con- 
sidered the  subject  sub  judice,  and  his  first  and  last  pronounce- 
ment upon  it  is  defined  in  the  course  of  his  argument  in  Joseph 
Vance  respecting  the  Ghost  in  the  Corpse. 

* I expressed  just  now  my  mistrust  of  what  is  called  Spiritualism  (very 
absurdly,  as  it  deprives  us  of  a word  the  reverse  of  materialism.  I want 
the  word  Spiritualist  to  describe  myself,  and  can’t  use  it  because  of  Mrs. 
Guppy  and  the  Davenport  brothers). 

‘ But  I’m  going  to  say  a good  word  for  even  this  sort  of  thing.  I owe 
it  a trifle  for  a message  said  to  come  from  Voltaire’s  Ghost.  It  was  asked  : 
“ Are  you  now  convinced  of  another  world  ? ” and  rapped  out,  “ There  is 
no  other  world — Death  is  only  an  incident  in  Life.”  He  was  a suggestive 
Ghost,  at  any  rate.’ 

None  the  less,  it  is  not  surprising  that  two  people  tempera- 
mentally hypersensitive  and  impressionable  should  have  had 
curious  experiences  in  regard  to  supposed  psychic  phenomena 
and  telepathy ; indeed,  the  almost  uncanny  succession  of  coin- 
cidences connected  with  De  Morgan’s  fiction  sometimes  found  a 
counterpart  in  the  development  of  his  wife’s  art. 

On  one  occasion  Mrs.  Pickering  was  anxious  to  give  a pre- 
sent to  her  brother,  Sir  Walter  Spencer-Stanhope,  and  com- 
missioned Evelyn  to  paint  a large  picture  for  this  purpose,  the 
subject  to  be  chosen  by  its  future  recipient.  Sir  Walter,  however, 
declared  himself  unable  to  think  of  anything  suitable,  and 
finally,  as  Evelyn  sat  drawing  in  her  studio  in  London  one 
evening,  it  flashed  across  her  that  she  would  like  to  paint  a 
picture  from  the  text,  * Mercy  and  Truth  have  met  together, 
Righteousness  and  Peace  have  kissed  each  other / So  clearly  did 
she  visualize  the  design  that  she  drew  it  forthwith. 

The  following  morning  brought  a letter  from  her  uncle  in 
Yorkshire:  *1  have  at  last  thought  of  a subject  I should  like 
painted,’  he  wrote ; and  to  her  astonishment  he  suggested  the 
text  for  which  she  had  drawn  the  cartoon  apparently  at  the  very 
hour  at  which  he  was  writing  to  her ! 

Certain  incidents,  however,  which  occurred  to  both  De 
Morgan  and  his  wife  seem  suggestive  of  the  erratic  pranks  of 
a poltergeist. 

One  evening  when  they  were  having  some  friends  to  dinner 
at  their  flat  in  Florence,  the  conversation  turned  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Spiritualism.  All  present  related  their  experiences  save 
one  lady  who,  while  helping  herself  from  a dish  of  rissoles,  which 
she  pronounced  to  be  excellent,  declared  in  the  same  breath 

z 


354  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

that  she  would  never  believe  in  the  supernatural  unless  some 
event,  however  trivial,  came  under  her  notice  which  could  be 
explained  by  no  rational  interpretation. 

After  dinner  the  conversation  drifted  to  other  topics,  and 
by  and  by,  as  the  guests  were  departing,  De  Morgan  went  with 
them  out  into  the  hall  where  he  had  hung  up  their  coats  and 
cloaks  upon  some  pegs  which  were  placed  so  high  that  the 
other  members  of  the  party  who  had  not  the  advantage  of  his 
height  could  not  reach  them.  As  he  lifted  down  the  cloak 
of  the  lady  who  had  proclaimed  her  scepticism,  suddenly  from 
its  hood,  in  the  view  of  all  present,  there  shot  out  an  article 
which  hit  her  upon  the  nose  and  then  fell  to  the  floor.  Con- 
siderably startled,  everyone  began  to  search  for  the  mysterious 
object  which,  since  it  had  seemed  alive,  De  Morgan  momen- 
tarily concluded  to  be  what  he  termed  4 a mouse  with  Alpine 
proclivities.’  It  was,  however,  soon  discovered  that  the  lively 
object  was  a rissole — now  ice-cold — one  which  had  apparently 
come  from  the  dish  of  which  the  lady  had  been  partaking  when 
she  had  announced  her  disbelief  in  the  supernatural ! 

The  incident,  for  all  its  appearance  of  a practical  joke,  re- 
mained to  De  Morgan  inexplicable.  During  the  entire  evening 
none  of  those  present  had  been  out  into  the  hall ; the  only 
other  people  in  the  flat  were  the  Italian  chef , who  had  never 
left  the  kitchen,  and  his  wife  who  had  waited  at  table.  The 
latter  was  extremely  short  and  could  not  have  reached  the 
cloak ; both  were  preternaturally  solemn  and  incapable  of  an 
unseemly  jest ; neither  understood  a word  of  English.  More- 
over, the  fact  remained  that  the  rissole  had  not  fallen  from  its 
hiding  place,  but  had,  leapt ! 

On  another  occasion  an  incident  happened  which  seemed 
full  of  ominous  import.  Evelyn,  walking  along  Kensington 
High  Street  one  afternoon,  when  nearly  opposite  the  station, 
distinctly  heard  her  husband’s  voice  call  ‘ Yoicks  ’ — a word 
by  which  they  were  in  the  habit  of  hailing  each  other.  She 
turned  round,  startled,  expecting  to  see  him  ; but  he  was  nowhere 
in  sight.  Yet  so  vivid  was  the  impression  that,  although  she 
had  an  engagement  in  the  opposite  direction,  she  returned 
home,  feeling  perturbed  lest  anything  had  happened  to  him. 
He,  however,  was  not  in  the  house ; but  later  in  the  afternoon 
he  appeared,  likewise  looking  distressed  and  anxious.  4 I want 
to  know,’  he  questioned  at  once,  4 were  you  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  High  Street  Station  this  afternoon  ? ’ ‘Yes,’  she  replied, 
full  of  curiosity  ; ‘ why  do  you  ask  ? ’ ‘ Because  I was  bicycling 

past  the  station,  and  I distinctly  heard  you  call  “ Yoicks  ! ” 
I got  off  my  bicycle  and  looked  for  you  everywhere,  but  I could 
not  see  you.’  ‘ What  time  was  that  ? ’ asked  Evelyn.  ‘ Six 
o’clock.’  ‘ And  I went  past  the  station  at  four,  and  heard 


* UNLIKELY  STORIES*  AND  * GHOSTS  * 355 

you  call ! * she  replied.  As  an  instance  of  possible  telepathy  the 
episode  was  curious  ; in  its  absence  of  sequel  it  remained  pointless. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  De  Morgan  had  noticed  that  a 
particular  type  of  dream  came  to  him  with  unfailing  regularity 
before  a death  took  place  in  his  family — a dream  of  his  early 
home  in  Camden  Street,  entirely  unremarkable  save  that 
throughout  his  life  its  recurrence  proved  the  inevitable  precursor 
of  some  bereavement.  One  night  he  dreamed  it  with  extreme 
vividness,  but  no  ill-tidings  followed,  and  he  had  forgotten 
the  occurrence  when,  some  weeks  later,  he  learnt  that,  at  the 
date  when  he  had  been  visited  by  the  dream,  his  brother  Edward 
had  been  killed  by  a fall  from  his  horce  in  South  Africa.  On 
another  occasion  the  dream  came  to  him  indistinctly,  and,  after 
a similar  lapse  of  time,  he  heard  of  the  death  in  Africa  of  the 
infant  son  of  that  same  brother. 

De  Morgan  often  referred  facetiously  to  the  curious  succession 
of  coincidences  in  matters  great  and  small  which  seemed  to 
dog  all  that  he  did.  ‘ I am  writing  to  you/  he  says  in  one  letter 
to  Heinemann,  4 not  because  I have  a single  thing  to  say,  but 
because  I am  wanting  to  hear  from  you  ! Every  time  I write 
to  you,  with  the  regularity  of  a clock-tick,  a letter  arrives  from 
you  by  the  next  post.  And  you  see  our  letters  can’t  cross  with- 
out yours  having  something  to  cross.  Post  hoc , propter  hoc.’ 

But  apart  from  ludicrous  or  trivial  occurrences,  De  Morgan 
and  his  wife  had  an  experience  of  which  they  never  spoke  to 
the  outer  world,  and  respecting  which  their  reticence  is  easily 
comprehensible,  since  they  both  felt  strongly  that  in  dealing 
with  any  phenomena  apparently  inexplicable  on  materialistic 
grounds,  not  only  caution  but  reverence  was  requisite.  They 
both  recognized  very  clearly  that  the  majority  of  such  investi- 
gations in  Spiritualism  were  productive  of  two  evils — an  incite- 
ment to  fraud  to  prey  on  credulity,  and  the  danger  of  a loss  of 
mental  balance  in  the  participators.  Still  more  they  appreciated 
the  fact  that  all  deductions  from  such  experiments  must  remain 
largely  theoretical,  and  that  the  phenomena  investigated  are  open 
to  more  than  one  interpretation.  On  the  other  hand,  they  felt 
that  if  any  substratum  of  truth  underlay  the  seeming  triviality 
of  much  of  these  phenomena,  they  did  not  wish  lightly  to  expose 
what  was  sacred  to  the  sneers  of  the  prejudiced. 

This  being  so,  they  determined  to  prosecute  their  experi- 
ment without  bias,  simply  and  privately ; they  decided  that 
each  evening  they  would  set  apart  a quiet  time  after  dinner 
for  the  development  of  automatic  writing  ; and  that  they  would 
admit  no  friends  to  take  part  in  it,  or  to  share  their  confidence. 
Owing  to  the  retired  life  they  then  led,  they  were  able  to  pursue 
this  plan  with  very  few  breaks  in  its  continuity ; they  sat  with 
no  other  apparatus  than  a pencil  and  a sheet  of  paper,  while 


356  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

one  placed  a hand  upon  the  wrist  of  the  other.  At  first  little 
or  no  result  was  arrived  at.  When  the  pencil  moved,  it  wan- 
dered aimlessly  over  the  paper,  describing  meaningless  gyrations. 
By  and  by,  words  appeared,  incessantly  repeated ; then  broken 
sentences,  but  so  disjointed  and  senseless  that  often  they  felt 
disposed  to  give  up  the  attempt.  After  many  months  of  patient 
perseverance,  however,  the  writing  assumed  a different  form. 
‘ Angels  ' professed  to  write — occasionally  interrupted  by  their 
prototypes — and  a definite  course  of  teaching  was  instituted 
by  what  purported  to  be  the  glorified  Spirit  of  a man  who,  when 
on  earth,  had  been  a wretched  leper.  In  this  fashion  they 
got  a mass  of  correspondence,  most  of  it  curious,  some  of  it 
of  singular  and  lofty  beauty,  all  of  it  totally  different  from 
the  usual  inanities  procured  under  like  conditions.  It  is  an 
interesting  question  how  far  the  conjunction  of  two  rare  minds, 
acting  in  complete  harmony,  sufficed  to  produce  a rare  develop- 
ment ; but  to  the  self-constituted  mediums  it  seemed  that 
an  influence  external  to  their  consciousness  evolved  every 
phrase.  Moreover,  two  things  were  curious  about  the  experi- 
ment. While  they  wrote,  the  sense  of  a word  which  they  were 
transcribing  might  occasionally  become  apparent  to  them, 
but  the  meaning  of  what  they  were  transcribing — the  gist  of 
an  entire  sentence,  far  more,  an  entire  paragraph — was  totally 
unintelligible  to  them  until  they  were  able  to  read  it  as  a whole. 
Still  more,  the  writing  itself  varied  in  a fashion  which  they 
could  not  influence,  what  purported  to  be  different  * controls ' 
on  each  occasion  producing  entirely  different  autographs. 

After  a time  the  experiment  was  abandoned,  principally 
because  its  outcome  latterly  consisted  of  a repetition  of  the 
first  letters  produced ; but  the  beautiful  ideas  suggested  by 
these  communications  made  a deep  impression  on  both  writers, 
possibly  all  the  more  that  these  were  a reflex  of  their  own  men- 
tality. For  the  motif  dominant  in  all  these  ‘ letters  * likewise 
permeates  De  Morgan’s  fiction  ; the  belief  that  this  life  is  but 
one  phase  of  a great  whole,  one  stage  in  a continuous  progression, 
and  that  the  growth  of  a soul  is  the  greatest  good  ; while  the  same 
message  Evelyn  passed  on  to  the  world  in  glowing  colours  and 
fair  fancies.  In  most  of  her  later  pictures  can  be  traced  that 
paramount  idea  of  struggle  and  of  growth,  the  battle  for  attain- 
ment to  a rarer  atmosphere,  a finer  development ; and  her  work 
is  penetrated  with  a wealth  of  spiritual  insight  apparent  to 
those  whose  minds  are  atune  to  interpret  it.  One  picture  especi- 
ally may  be  cited  in  this  connexion. 

In  ' The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  suffereth  violence,’  within  a small 
space  of  canvas  is  depicted  the  gradual  evolution  of  a develop- 
ing soul.  At  the  base  are  seen  the  grey,  sad  forms  of  the  spirit- 
ually damned — those  who  dwell  mentally  in  outer  darkness. 


* UNLIKELY  STORIES  ' AND  ‘ GHOSTS  * 357 

Next  are  depicted  their  first  painful  steps  upwards  towards  the 
light  which,  as  yet,  cannot  be  discerned  by  them,  even  though 
a faint  flush  from  that  far-away  glory  is  already  dyeing  their 
drab-hued  garments.  Then,  gradually,  as  they  struggle  upwards 
by  slow,  arduous  degrees,  the  colour  intensifies  ; their  dark- 
ened gaze  is  directed  towards  the  heavens — not,  as  previously, 
earthwards ; till,  by  and  by,  when  they  have  risen  higher, 
the  chains  fall  from  their  fettered  limbs,  the  bandages  from  their 
blinded  eyes,  and  there  bursts  upon  each  emancipated  spirit 
the  gladness  and  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

Many  other  of  her  works,  however,  might  be  instanced 
as  expressing  variations  of  the  same  idea  of  spiritual  stagna- 
tion and  blindness,  or  the  stress  and  agony  of  self-realization 
and  development.  In  ‘ A Soul  in  Hell/  we  see  the  picture 
of  a man  who,  ‘ surrounded  by  everything  that  is  beautiful 
and  desirable,  yet,  by  the  force  of  his  own  dark  spirit,  dwells 
in  a Hell  of  his  own  making.’  In  another  picture  entitled  * The 
Captives  ’ is  depicted  a cave,  hung  with  age-old  stalactites, 
wherein  are  imprisoned  female  captives,  clothed  in  rainbow 
tints,  but  terrorized  by  shadowy  dragons,  phantasms  of  their 
own  creation.  Another  large  canvas  entitled  ‘ Realities  * tells 
its  tale  more  forcibly  and  with  painful  emphasis. 

Four  female  figures  are  seated  upon  the  shore,  while  about 
them  hover  bat-like  larvae  of  evil  appearance.  The  women 
are  depicted  fair  of  form,  graceful  of  pose,  and  clad  in  draperies 
so  exquisite  and  exhibiting  such  lovely  gradations  of  colour 
that  this  vivid  beauty  accentuates  to  a point  of  horror  the 
contrasting  ugliness  of  their  features.  For  their  faces  are  the 
faces  of  those  spiritually — even  mentally — deficient,  sodden 
with  the  crass  stupidity  of  a mind  dead  to  higher  things.  And 
as  they  sit  there,  deaf  and  blind  to  the  glory  of  the  spheres,  above 
them — close  to  them — in  the  translucent  ether  are  floating 
a bevy  of  angelic  forms,  radiant  in  celestial  light,  song  breathing 
from  their  joyous  lips,  bliss  expressed  in  their  glancing  wings, 
their  airy  flight,  their  lovely  faces.  Yet  not  every  one  read  the 
interpretation  aright. 

‘ I suppose/  said  a visitor  one  day,  * these  ' — pointing  to  the 
angelic  vision — ‘ are  the  Dreams ; and  the  lower  figures — 
the  sadness,  the  sordidness,  and  the  misery  clothed  in  beauty 
which  is  a mockery — those  are  the  “ Realities  ” of  Life  ? ' 

4 I see  differently/  said  Evelyn  De  Morgan. 

And  in  a little  notebook  De  Morgan  likewise  pencilled  this 
sentence : * The  things  we  count  real  are  dreams,  and  the  real- 
ities are  all  a-head/ 

In  yet  another  picture,  4 The  Valley  of  Shadows/  previously 
referred  to,  a different  aspect  of  the  same  belief  is  expressed. 
It  may  be  held  to  be  imaged  thus  in  the  automatic  script. 


358  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

You  are  in  the  Valley  of  Shadows,  but  you  know  it,  hence  the  light 
by  which  I write  and  the  words  that  echo  in  your  brain.  . . . These 
Shadows  are  big  and  ominous.  They  are  hight  misery  and  disease,  poverty 
and  despondency.  But  they  are  Shadows  to  be  followed  by  the  phantom 
shapes  of  success  and  wealthy  ease.  All  are  Shadows. 

Outside  in  the  clear  vault  of  Heaven,  under  the  burning  sky  of  Truth, 
they  have  no  existence  . . . the  faint  dying  shout  of  Devils  is  lost  in 
the  swelling  music  of  the  spheres.  . . . 

To  give  isolated  examples,  however,  of  the  writings  which 
coincided  with  many  of  the  ideas  expressed  in  both  pictures 
and  novels  would  be  misleading  without  the  context ; yet  a 
few  paragraphs  in  relation  to  Art  may  be  quoted  as  being  obviously 
in  unison  with  the  mentality  of  those  who  transcribed  them. 

‘ You  are  not  to  think  that  the  only  reason  for  doing  Art  is  to  make 
life  beautiful.  The  ugliness  in  modern  life  is  a blindness  to  existing  things 
most  necessary  to  the  growth  of  the  human  soul.  I think  the  best  thing 
to  strive  for  is  the  realization  that  Art  should  be  Harmony.  The  second 
thing  to  grasp  is  that  Harmony  is  the  creative  force,  and  Discord  the 
power  of  dissolution.  Out  of  Harmony  comes  growth.  Out  of  Discord, 
Death  and  destruction.  In  life  on  Earth  growth  is  slain  by  Discord,  and 
Harmony  leads  to  fruition.  . . . Now  I see  clear,  and  Life  is  a most  glorious 
thing  and  Death  but  a phantom. 

* * * * * 

‘ The  spiritual  can  only  be  seen  by  Spirit,  and  the  reason  Art  is  of 
vital  importance  in  the  scheme  of  Life  is  that  it  depends  for  its  very 
existence  on  certain  spiritual  laws  not  known  on  Earth,  only  guessed  at. 
Now  to  understand  this,  two  things  are  required  : intense  faith  and  great 
simplicity  of  character.  The  faith  is  needed  to  grasp  the  dimness  of  the 
unseen,  and  the  simplicity  is  needed  in  order  that  the  veil  of  matter  should 
not  destroy  by  its  complexity  the  chance  of  the  inner  Vision  to  see  things 
clearly  not  of  your  earth.  Art  is  entirely  of  the  Spirit.  Only  as  the 
Spirit  grows  does  it  become  possible. 

***** 

* It  is  the  best  thing  on  earth,  that  incessant  struggle.  . . . Art  is 
more  important  than  you  think.  But  it  must  be  earnest,  grim  life-earnest- 
ness that  has  no  tincture  of  gain  in  it,  or  love  of  earth-fame  : only  the 
strength  of  one’s  arm,  and  the  whole  power  of  one’s  being  are  to  be  given 
to  it  ; and  to  look  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  but  go  straight  on 
doing  the  best  that  is  in  one.’ 

***** 

* Art  is  hard,  and  the  flesh  is  a burden  and  many  are  swept  back  by 
the  flood  of  adverse  criticism.  It  is  best  to  do  as  you  do,  to  work  in  the 
shade  till  you  catch  the  distant  echo  of  the  music  you  must  repeat  to 
others  ; to  shun  the  public  with  its  ever- vacant  stare,  to  hide  your  inner- 
most thoughts  from  view  till  they  grow  and  become  strong.  Continue. 
Farewell  ! ’ 

Interspersed  throughout  the  writings,  however,  were  certain 
passages  that  seem  to  recur  with  a frequency  which,  in  the 
sad  days  that  were  approaching,  must  surely  have  been  recalled 
to  the  thoughts  of  one  of  the  writers : — 

f You  are  almost  among  the  Spirits,  but  still  the  Flesh  is  there.  You 
are  not  long  for  this  world.  . . . The  Spirit  is  bright,  but  the  frame  wears 
thin.  . . . When  you  come,  pray,  pray  to  get  free  together,  for  Happiness 
cannot  be  for  one  without  the  other.’ 


The  Worship  of  Mammon 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  pinxit 

[In  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Stirling. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  OLD  AGE 

1914-1917 

IN  July,  1914,  De  Morgan,  seated  at  the  ‘ table  with  the 
queer  feet ' at  which  his  father  had  been  wont  to  write, 
with  quiet  amusement  re-enacted  the  role  which  his  readers  loved 
to  assign  to  him,  that  of  the  ‘ benevolent  old  gentleman/  exponent 
of  * early  Victorianism/  a survival  from  a world  old-fashioned 
beyond  belief,  yet  with  certain  redeeming  features  to  set  against 
its  obvious  absurdities.  Tranquilly  he  wrote  : — 

* I believe  that  Youth  can  never  image  the  youth  of  its  grandsires, 
can  never  really  think  of  its  grandmothers  as — to  put  it  plainly — kissable. 
Of  course,  says  Youth,  these  old  fogies  had  a kind  of  working  juvenility 
to  justify  the  fewness  of  their  years  ; but  that  was  their  old-fashioned 
humbug.  They  were  overshadowed  all  the  time  by  the  future-perfect 
tense,  and  the  gloom  of  their  senility  to  come  was  retrospective.  Look 
at  the  pictures  of  them  ! Read  their  fiction — their  poems  ! Old  fogies 
from  the  beginning,  incurable  ! That  is  what  they  were,  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  We  are  up  to  date.  . . . 

Dear  boy — dear  girl — you  are  quite  mistaken  ! You  have  no  intrinsic 
newness  others  have  not  had  before,  each  in  his  turn  and  hers.  Fogeydom 
of  old  was  Modern  too  in  its  day,  and  Bucks  and  Dandies  were  once 
the  Last  Thing  Out  ; even  as  Nuts,  I believe  now  are.  I,  vanishing  at 
last,  look  back  forgivingly,  almost  lovingly  to  the  vacuous  fatuities  of 
my  days  of  vacuum  ; the  then-new  slang  that  made  my  father  sick  ; 
the  area  of  incorrigible  crinolines  ; the  Piccadilly  streamers  of  the  swells, 
and  their  Noah’s  Ark  coats.  And  they  have  grown  to  be  bywords  of 
scorn  to  you.  ...  * 

Then,  into  the  midst  of  that  tranquil,  leisurely  fiction,  came 
news  which  startled  him.  On  August  1,  writing  to  his  friend, 
Mr.  Scott-Moncrieff,  he  closed  his  letter  with  the  following 
sentence  : * I have  just  read  that  a Declaration  of  War  has  been 
made  that  may  make  our  precious  Civilization  a chaos  ! * On 
August  2 he  added  : * I suppose  all  the  ingenuous  Arts  will 
have  to  take  a back  seat  now  till  the  cloud  clears.  Nevertheless 
the  pen  that  writes  this  is  scribbling  fiction  as  ever.  One  is 
incorrigible  ! * 

Two  days  later,  England  joined  in  the  struggle ; and  the 
full  tide  of  carnage  poured  relentlessly  over  Europe. 

359 


360  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

‘ What  a hideous  time  this  is  ! ' wrote  De  Morgan  in  the 
October  following,  to  the  same  correspondent.  ‘ Shall  we  ever 
be  at  peace  again  ? I am  sick  of  it,  and  only  feel  if  I could 
kill  two  junkers,  I should  die  content ! I wonder  if  any  pacifist 
ever  made  an  oration  on  the  top  of  a reinforced  concrete  block 
made  in  Peace-time  to  bombard  London.  Really,  Germany 
is  the  Devil ! ' 

That  same  month  he  wrote  to  Professor  Phelps : — 

‘ 127  Church  Street, 

* Chelsea,  S.W., 

* Oct.  26,  1914. 

* My  dear  Prof.  Phelps, — 

* I have  received  your  book  and  am  glad  to  see  it,  and  grateful. 
It  is  a pleasure  to  look  forward  to  when  the  light  breaks — at  present  one 
cannot  read  or  write  for  the  guns.  Not  that  one  hears  them  here,  except 
metaphorically.  But  they  are  audible  at  Ramsgate. 

‘ I am  sorry  to  say  that  I am  barbarous  by  nature  and  catch  myself 
gloating  over  slaughter — slaughter  of  Germans,  of  course  ! Half  of  these 
men  I should  have  liked — a tenth  of  these  men  I should  have  loved.  It 
is  sickening — but  . . . 

‘ A friend  has  just  left  me  who  maintains  that  the  Germans  never 
do  anything  that  is  not  in  strict  accordance  with  international  law.  Then 
a devil  may  break  loose,  and  yet  comply  with  international  law  ! 

‘ Good  forecasts — good  for  us — are  in  the  air  to-night  ! I hope — but 
have  done  some  hoping  to  no  purpose  latterly. 

‘ However,  the  last  rumour  I heard  professed  to  come  direct  from  Sir 
John  French. 

* We  have  left  Florence  altogether,  so  you  will  find  our  nest  tenanted 
by  other  birds  if  you  go  there.  I feel  as  if  the  world  were  ending  up,  to 
the  sound  of  melinite  ! And  yet,  as  Browning  wrote,  " God  never  says 
one  word.” 

‘ Our  very  best  regards  to  yourselves. 

‘ Yours  ever, 

‘ Wm.  De  Morgan.’ 

As  the  cloud  darkened,  and  there  followed  days  of  anxiety, 
privation  and  increasing  danger,  the  inventive  faculties  of  both 
De  Morgan  and  his  wife  reflected  prevalent  conditions.  To 
imaginative  minds,  the  horror  was  intensified,  fancy  spared 
them  no  measure  of  its  realization.  Up  in  her  studio  Evelyn 
painted  a series  of  pictures  in  which  subjects  relating  to  war- 
time were  treated  in  symbolic  guise  ; while  De  Morgan  sat 
in  his  study  below  with  his  power  of  writing  paralysed  and 
his  thoughts  wandering  to  other  matters.  The  following  autumn 
he  was  writing  to  Mr.  Scott-Moncrieff : — 

* Church  Street, 

‘9.  12.  15. 

‘ That’s  a lovely  sonnet  of  yours  : “ When  all  alone  ! etc.”  I rejoice 
that  you  keep  in  such  good  Shakespearean  form.  I try  to  write,  but  fail — 
the  only  work  I take  to  is  devising  new  means  of  Hun-baffiing.  The  worst 
of  the  whole  of  it  is  that  there’s  no  help  for  it — we  must  have  it  out  now, 
or  have  it  again  in  a few  years.  I think  of  the  small  boys  and  girls  I see— 
what  is  the  world  to  be  for  them  ? 


THE  YOUNG  MAN’S  OLD  AGE  361 

* I am  told  that  the  novel  trade  has  a certain  briskness — people  want 
something  to  take  their  minds  off  the  war.  What  I am  writing  doesn’t 
take  the  author’s  ofE. 

‘ I hear  some  strange  stories  about  coming  development  in  aircraft. 
We  have  not  had  any  lightning  here  following  raids. 

* Can  you,  or  any  of  yours,  tell  me  a thing  I want  to  know  ? Can  an 
aeroplane  fly  a kite  without  danger  to  its  stability  ? No  one  can  tell  me 
anything  from  experience. 

* Loves  from  both  to  all — and  hopes  for  better  things.’ 

In  spite  of  adverse  conditions  and  many  distractions,  De 
Morgan  was  still  struggling  to  continue  two  novels  upon  which 
he  had  been  engaged  before  the  outbreak  of  hostilities.  Just 
as  an  artist  will  turn  from  one  picture  to  another  and  find  his 
power  of  perception  thus  quickened,  so  De  Morgan  had  always 
found  that  he  could  turn  without  any  confusion  of  mind  from 
one  plot  to  another,  and  that  the  transition  of  ideas  actually 
aided  self-criticism.  One  of  the  books  upon  which  he  was 
thus  working  was  entitled  The  Old  Mad  House ; the  other, 
from  which  quotations  have  already  been  made,  he  intended 
should  embody  many  of  his  personal  recollections  of  Chelsea 
in  a bygone  time  ; and,  as  already  explained,  he  had  laid  part 
of  the  scene  of  this  latter  story  in  his  former  home,  the  vanished 
Vale. 

The  origin  of  the  title  decided  upon  for  this  book  was  curious. 
One  day  De  Morgan  and  his  wife  had  gone  down  into  the  country, 
where,  as  they  were  walking  along  a lonely  lane,  they  saw  a 
boy  approaching.  * I shall  ask  this  boy  to  give  me  a title  for 
my  new  book  ! ’ said  De  Morgan  on  a sudden  impulse.  Accord- 
ingly he  stopped  the  lad,  and  after  a few  preliminary  remarks, 
he  said,  ‘ Now,  I want  to  ask  you  a funny  question.  I am  a 
writer,  and  I want  a name  for  my  next  book.  If  you  were 
writing  a story,  what  should  you  call  it  ? ’ The  lad  reflected 
for  a moment,  and  then  said,  ‘ I should  call  it  The  Old  Man’s 
Youth  and  the  Young  Man’s  Old  Age  * ‘ What  an  incredible 

answer ! * commented  De  Morgan  as  he  walked  on.  ‘ Who 
would  have  thought  of  getting  such  a title  out  of  an  ordinary 
country  yokel ! * 

It  will  be  remembered  that  his  first  intention  in  writing 
Joseph  Vance  had  been  that  it  should  be  the  life-story  of  a poor 
old  man  dying  in  the  Workhouse  Infirmary ; and  although 
the  original  motif  had  afterwards  been  abandoned,  in  this  later 
novel  De  Morgan  reverted  to  it,  so  that  in  his  thoughts  the 
tragedy  of  the  Young  Man’s  Old  Age  ran  like  a sombre  thread 
throughout  the  narrative  of  The  Old  Man’s  Youth.  Like  Joseph 
Vance  the  story  was  told  in  the  form  of  an  autobiography, 
and  in  order  to  identify  himself  more  closely  with  the  conditions 
he  was  describing,  De  Morgan  depicted  the  narrator  as  a man 
who  had  been  ruined,  as  he  himself  had,  in  a measure,  been 


362  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

ruined,  by  an  early  adherence  to  Art.  Thus  it  befell  that  the 
first  novel  written  by  De  Morgan  and  the  last  were  drawn  from 
the  same  inspiration  and  written  in  the  same  vein. 

In  pursuance  of  his  idea,  De  Morgan  paid  many  visits  to 
the  Chelsea  Infirmary,  where  he  studied  the  inmates  and  their 
surroundings,  and  made  many  devoted  friends  among  the  old 
paupers,  who  learnt  to  look  eagerly  for  his  kindly  conversa- 
tion and  the  little  presents  which  he  invariably  brought  them. 
In  like  manner  he  had  long  been  known  and  adored  by  the 
small  Lizeranns  and  Michael  Ragstoars  of  Chelsea.  At  a par- 
ticular hour  in  the  evening  when  he  knew  that  the  children 
would  be  gathered  wistfully  round  the  doors  of  a cinema  near 
by,  he  would  wend  his  way  thither,  and  after  engaging  them 
in  a lively  or  a confidential  talk,  he  would  distribute  a shower 
of  pennies  which  enabled  them  to  enter  the  longed-for  precincts 
of  the  theatre.  Indeed,  his  progress  through  the  streets  of 
Chelsea  was  incessantly  interrupted  to  chat  with  some  of  his 
endless  friends  of  all  ranks  and  all  ages  in  the  locality ; and 
as  he  talked,  his  retentive  brain  was  still  storing  up  impressions 
for  use  in  the  many  novels  which  he  contemplated  writing. 
‘ When  a man  arrives  at  my  time  of  life/  he  said  one  day,  * there 
is  one  question  of  paramount  importance — the  date  of  one’s 
death.  I feel  more  and  more  anxious  to  get  all  the  definite 
book-scribbling  done  that  I can  do.  It  would  be  a great  sell 
to  have  my  materials  outlast  me ! I would  sooner  use  them 
all  up.’  Meanwhile  he  looked  forward  with  unshaken  confidence 
to  the  time  when  Victory  should  crown  the  efforts  of  the  Allies. 
f This  war  is  an  outbreak  of  diabolism  which  will  pass,’  he  would 
say  ; and  one  day  he  added  quizzically,  * If  only  I had  been 
translated  into  German,  it  would  have  prevented  all  this — 
what  a pity ! ’ 

He  soon  fell  placidly  into  line  with  the  unusual  economic 
conditions,  and  it  became  a familiar  sight  to  see  his  tall,  slim 
figure  hurrying  briskly  on  a daily  round  among  the  provision 
shops  in  order  to  bespeak  the  small  allowance  of  food  available 
under  the  scheme  of  rationing  then  in  force  ‘ You  met  him 
in  the  morning,’  related  Mrs.  Ady,  ‘ doing  his  marketing  and 
carrying  provisions  home  ; and  late  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening 
he  was  constantly  to  be  seen  setting  out  on  a rapid  walk  along 
the  Embankment.  Often  you  caught  sight  of  him  stopping 
at  a street  corner  in  earnest  conversation  with  a soldier  in  khaki 
just  back  from  the  front.  The  tall  figure  was  slightly  bowed 
with  advancing  years,  and  Time  had  whitened  the  locks  and 
beard  that  were  once  a rich  brown  ; but  the  brisk,  alert  step 
and  clear  blue  eyes  with  their  frank  kindly  glance  were  still 
the  same  as  ever.’ 

As  winter  swept  over  the  land — a winter  of  darkened  streets, 


THE  YOUNG  MAN’S  OLD  AGE  363 

of  air-raids,  and  scanty  food — his  thoughts  sometimes  turned 
longingly  to  peaceful  days  in  the  past  spent  in  the  bright  climate 
of  Italy.  He  would  recall  the  happy  week-ends  at  Villa  Nuti, 
when  his  friend  Spencer-Stanhope  was  still  alive,  and  the  walks 
up  to  Bellosquardo,  when,  as  he  and  his  wife  climbed  higher 
and  higher,  they  watched  the  blood-red  sunsets  behind  Monte 
Morello,  or,  later  in  the  spring,  the  Val  d’Arno  smiling  in  the 
first  flush  of  April  loveliness.  One  bleak  winter’s  day  towards 
dusk  Mrs.  Ady  relates  how  she  encountered  him  as  they  were 
both  passing  a new  Roman  Catholic  church  which  had  been 
built  of  recent  years  in  Cheyne  Row.  The  door  stood  open, 

and  in  the  red  glow  within,  they  saw  the  priest  reciting  the 

office  of  Benediction,  the  clouds  of  incense  rising  heavenwards, 
and  the  gleam  of  silver  and  lighted  candles  showing  brightly 
upon  the  altar.  ‘ Ah,’  exclaimed  De  Morgan,  his  thoughts 
reverting  to  Florence,  ‘ I like  that ! It  makes  me  feel  I am  at 

home  again  ! ’ Then  it  flashed  across  him  that  this  church 

stood  on  the  exact  spot  where  his  first  pottery  kiln  had  been  set 
up  in  the  garden  of  Orange  House  ; and,  with  a little  laugh, 
he  added : ‘ How  odd  I should  have  said  that— of  course,  it 
really  was  my  home  ! ’ 

Forgetful  of  the  date,  in  November,  1915,  De  Morgan  passed 
the  anniversary  of  his  seventy-sixth  birthday ; and  a little 
characteristic  jeu-d’ esprit  connected  with  this  may  be  mentioned. 
The  present  writer  had  written  a book  entitled  A Painter  of 
Dreams  which,  amongst  other  articles,  contained  a short  life 
of  Roddam  Spencer-Stanhope,  and  which  was  dedicated  to 
De  Morgan  in  the  following  terms  : — 

* To  the  author  of  When  Ghost  Meets  Ghost  and  many  other  delightful 
works. 

A token  of  homage 
from 

A writer  of  facts 
to 

A writer  of  fiction. 

* I write  of  the  Ghosts  I hear  of. 

You  write  of  the  Ghosts  you  see  ; 

But  never  beneath  our  busy  pens 

Or  the  fertile  scope  of  our  magic  lens. 

Doth  mingle  that  Company  ! 

* Each  apart  in  our  land  of  Phantoms— 

The  Dead,  or  the  Never-have-been, 

We  follow  a lilting  measure, 

We  struggle  for  truth  or  for  treasure, 

Unreal  as  a Painted  Dream. 

* So  I fathom  a world  extinguished ; j 
You  fashion  a mimic  host ; 

We  live  in  a separate  Dreamland 
Where  never  can  Ghost  meet  Ghost  \ * 


364  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

The  morning  after  his  receipt  of  this  book  brought  the 
following  letter  from  De  Morgan  : — 

* Diana  dear,  upon  my  word 
It’s  really  only  just  occurred 

To  one  who  must  be  reckoned  yaw 
Most  absent-minded  brother-in-law. 

That  extra  gratitude  is  due 

On  this  account  from  him  to  you  ; — 

The  book  you  gave  him  just  this  minute— 

(Not  a dull  page,  I warrant,  in  it  !) 

Is  of  all  gifts  the  gift  most  pleasant — 

An  unexpected  birthday  present  ! 

For  Time  still  plays  “ his  usual  tricks  ** 

And  this  day  I am  seventy-six  ! 

* Only — and  this  was  just  like  me  ! 

The  fact  had  slipped  my  memory. 

The  old  chap’s  scythe  clears  tracts  on  tracts 
And  mows  down  unimportant  facts. 

One  trifle  of  his  vivisection 

Has  been  my  power  of  recollection. 

* My  Ego  doesn’t  care  a damn — 

Take  note  of  this — how  old  1 am  ! 

The  reply . 

* Your  verses  written  to  Diana 

Have  pleased  her  both  in  mood  and  manner  ; 

Despite  their  reference  to  your  age, 

She’s  stuck  them  on  her  title-page. 

And  feels  that  all  her  labour  past 
Is  really  valuable  at  last  ! 

9 But  one  thing  strikes  her  very  droll ; 

You  have  a wife — your  life — your  soul. 

Yet,  while  the  years  are  swiftly  fleeting. 

Nor  birthday  gift — nor  birthday  greeting 
Checks  off  the  flight  of  days  so  fair 
Between  so  chaste — so  fond  a pair  ! 

* Tho’  Time  may  play  his  tricks  with  you, 

This  should  not  be  where  one  is  two. 

(If  one  of  us  pursued  this  course, 

We’d  think  it  grounds  for  a divorce  ;) 

Your  spouse  (most  peerless  of  all  ladies) 

Should  quickly  be  consigned  to  Hades. 

9 All  that  remains  for  me  to  say 
Is — "happy  returns”  of  yesterday; 

Nor  can  I thus  conclude  my  letter — 

Of  years  de-M ore-gone — well — de  better  ! * 

Despite  the  prevailing  horror  which  was  eating  into  his 
heart  and  life,  De  Morgan’s  old  sense  of  fun  would  not  be  re- 
pressed. * I am  not  responsible  for  the  following  verses,’  he 
wrote  to  a friend,  * but  they  so  exactly  describe  my  present 


THE  YOUNG  MAN’S  OLD  AGE  365 

state  of  mind  and  body,  I feel  as  if  I had  written  them ! ' and 
he  quoted : — 

‘ My  Tuesdays  are  meatless, 

My  Wednesdays  are  wheatless, 

I am  getting  more  eatless  each  day; 

My  home  it  is  heatless. 

My  bed  it  is  sheetless, 

They’re  all  sent  to  the  Y.M.C.A. 

The  bar  rooms  are  treatless. 

My  coffee  is  sweetless. 

Each  day  I get  poorer  and  wiser ; 

My  stockings  are  feetless, 

My  trousers  are  seat  less : 

My  ! How  I do  hate  the  Kaiser  ! * 

* One  day,  early  in  the  war/  relates  Miss  Holiday,  * I had 
made  an  appointment  to  call  for  Mr.  De  Morgan  and  to  walk 
with  him  to  the  studio  in  Edith  Grove  where  Evelyn  was  housing 
the  beautiful  pictures  she  had  brought  over  from  Italy.  Unfor- 
tunately I paid  another  visit  en  route  where  my  hostess  talked 
and  talked  and  talked  about  the  war  without  a single  pause,  and 
my  heart  sank  lower  and  lower  as  the  hands  of  the  clock  moved 
round,  and  I could  seize  no  opportunity  to  leave.  When  at  length 
I reached  Church  Street  I explained  the  cause  of  my  unpunctu- 
ality. “ Well,  you  know,”  said  De  Morgan,  “ what  one  wants 
with  people  like  that  is  an  electric  bell ; they  talk  and  you  wait 
just  so  long,  and  then  you  push  down  a button  in  the  middle  of 
a sentence,  like  a chairman  at  a meeting,  and  then  they  have  to 
stop  ; and  then  you  get  up  and  run  away  ! ' 

‘ We  walked  on  to  the  studio,  none  the  less  discussing  the  one 
topic  which  occupied  all  our  thoughts ; and  I remarked  on  a 
horrible  description  in  that  day’s  papers  of  the  way  in  which  the 
Germans  tied  the  bodies  of  their  dead  in  bundles  and  stacked 
them  upright  in  railway  trucks  for  removal.  “ They  are  so 
dreadfully  tidy  ! ” he  commented.’  Yet  although  he  obviously 
disliked  speaking  of  the  horrors  which  were  being  enacted,  and 
usually  tried  to  give  another  bend  to  any  conversation  which 
tended  in  that  direction,  he  brooded  continually  upon  the  awful 
blight  which  had  stricken  humanity.  In  a little  notebook  in 
which  fleeting  thoughts  and  scraps  of  dialogue  were  jotted  down 
roughly  by  him  for  possible  use  in  future  books,  there  are  also  a 
number  of  pencilled  couplets  and  longer  verses  which,  though 
unfinished,  and  obviously  regarded  by  him  as  a mere  vent  to 
his  feelings,  intended  for  no  eye  but  his  own,  yet  serve  to  reflect 
the  trend  of  his  mood  at  this  date.  Selection  is  difficult,  and 
the  following  fragments  are  quoted  somewhat  at  random : — 

* Crush  or  be  crushed  ! What  would  his  profit  be 
Who  lived  to  be  the  thrall  of  this  aggressor  ? 

This  Lord  of  all  the  World — his  conscience  free 
As  each  man’s  is,  who  is  his  own  Confessor. 


366  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

* Who  flings  his  solemn  pledges  in  the  dust. 

Whose  plea  for  his  dishonour  all  unmeet  is— 

His  all-sufficient  plea — “ What  must  he  must 

When  drives  the  Devil! — To  the  wind  with  Treaties  I M 

9 Who  vaunts  his  God,  to  justify  his  sin— 

His  pigmy  God,  of  his  imagination — 

His  God  of  Battles  that  he  means  to  win 

And  must,  perforce,  if  he  would  rule  creation. 
***** 

9 Uproot  your  foe — annihilate  his  guns — 

With  such  as  he  all  talk  of  Peace  is  vapour. 
Whatever  Peace  is  made  with  modern  Huns 
That  Peace  will  only  be  a piece  of  paper.' 


9 “ War  is  War,”  said  the  submarine 

To  the  merchant-skipper  whose  boat  was  filling. 

**  I have  kept  the  Kaiser’s  conscience  clean 

Though  I sink  your  boat,  I abstain  from  killing. 

* “ None  can  say  that  the  fault  is  mine  ; 

Blame  my  foes,  who  yonder  shores  own. 

You  are  well  aware  you  have  crossed  the  line 

On  the  Kaiser’s  map,  that  bounds  his  War-Zone.” 

9 Who  shall  oppose  the  maxims  trite 
Of  old  sea-law  to  a Teuton  thesis — 

Or  dispute  a German  War-Lord’s  right 
To  do  whatever  he  damn  well  pleases  ? 

9 “ You’re  very  good,”  said  the  Skipper,  “ I’m  sure  ; 

Your  view  of  the  case  most  apt  and  terse  is. 

I quite  perceive  that  War  is  War, 

And  appreciate  your  tender  mercies. 

* “ And,  further  consolation  find, 

That  shot  is  shot,  and  shell  is  shell. 

It’s  just  as  well  to  bear  in  mind, 

That  God  is  God,  and  Hell  is  Hell.”  * 

Another  poem,  too  long  for  adequate  transcription,  pleads 
that  the  ruins  of  Rheims  Cathedral  should  be  left  untouched, 
4 a heritage  for  Time/  since — 

‘ No  spurious  birth 
Of  false  renewal  can  restore  the  spell 
Was  theirs  but  yesterday.  . . 

and  he  addresses  the  ‘ insolent  Hohenzollern ' : — 

‘ One  day  shall  rise  to  execrate  thy  power, 

Even  from  thy  native  soil,  no  longer  dumb, 

A thousand  curses  in  the  passing  hour — 

A thousand  thousand  in  the  years  to  come. 

* Woe  for  those  years  to  come  ! Where  is  thy  gain 

Wild  Teuton  beast,  well  baffled  of  thy  prize  ? 

On  that  audacious  brow  the  brand  of  Cain, 

In  that  false  heart  the  worm  that  never  dies  * 


THE  YOUNG  MAN’S  OLD  AGE 


367 


* But  for  these  ruins — their  unspoken  speech. 

Their  very  silence,  registers  thy  deed — 

Records  thy  shame — is  eloquent  to  teach 
As  taught  the  Nazarene  of  old.  What  need 

1 To  supersede  his  teaching  ? Shall  his  plea 
For  Peace  on  Earth  remain  an  idle  breath  ? 

A ripple  on  the  shores  of  Galilee  ? 

A murmur  through  the  palms  of  Nazareth  ? * 

Other  verses,  in  disjointed  couplets,  were  evidently  also  part 
of  a long  poem,  but  can  now  only  be  pieced  together  by  guesswork 
in  a fashion  perhaps  little  indicative  of  the  original  intention 
of  the  writer. 


* Culture  comes  ! Let  no  man  fail 
To  render  homage.  Shout-— All  hail ! 
Heralded  by  jargon  rank, 

With  taint  of  quack  and  mountebank. 
Her  High  Pontiff  Terrorism 
Rules  a Church  without  a schism. 

On  whose  altar  hell-fire  burns, 

Cant  and  blasphemy  by  turns  . . . 
Musical  with  shot  and  shell, 

All  the  symphonies  of  Hell  . . . 

A Kaiser  for  apostle  crying 
In  a wilderness  of  lying  . . . 

Blare  of  trumpets — roll  of  drums 
Pan-Germanic  Culture  comes  ! 


* Culture  goes.  And  plundered  marts. 

Ruined  homesteads,  broken  hearts. 

Girlhood  blasted,  slaughter,  wrack. 

Desolation — mark  her  track. 

Here  the  embers  of  a town, 

There  the  cross  she  trampled  down. 

That  small  thing  a baby’s  corse  is  ! 

That’s  a woman’s — that’s  a horse’s  l 
Food  for  starving  dog  and  cat  l 
A father  this — a mother  that 
Her  babe’s  experience  of  earth 
A bayonet  before  its  birth. 

That  carrion  flung  beside  the  way 
And  this — were  lovers  yesterday. 

By  these  things  I understand 
Culture  has  swept  across  the  land.’ 

To  Professor  Phelps  De  Morgan  wrote  in  the  following 
December : — 


* 127  Church  Street, 

‘ Chelsea, 

'Dec.  20 th,  1915, 

* I have  just  received  from  the  Authors’  Clipping  Co.  the  Boston  Weekly 
Herald  of  28th  ult.  in  which  you  appear  retailed  by  an  appreciative  inter- 
viewer. I always  feel  that  I should  agree  with  you  about  the  books  you 


368  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

criticize.  So  when  I am  asked  for  an  opinion  of  a work  I haven’t  read, 
yours  is  one  I am  very  apt  to  repeat.  I know  you  are  a safe  man. 

‘ I have  more  often  not  read  than  read  any  book — I find  I can’t  fix 
my  attention  closely  enough  on  any  modern  novelist  to  find  out  what  he 
means.  It  may  be  because  I am  really  a fossil — a survival  of  a brain  in 
a Neanderthal  skull,  that  is  allowed  to  write  what  he  omitted  to  write 
forty  years  ago — and  that  I can’t  enter  into  modern  ideas.  Or  it  may  be, 
more  likely,  that  I am,  as  I always  think  Haydn’s  Gipsy  Rondo  says. 
“ jolly  sick  and  tired  of  the  whole  turn  out  ! ” and  can’t  concentrate.  I 
can’t  read  a vivid  description — it  calls  for  such  a tremendous  effort  of  the 
imagination  to  “ realize  ” it,  as  they  say  nowadays.  Whenever  I read  a 
newspaper  column  I wonder  how  soon  the  writer  will  say  that  somebody 
doesn’t  “ realize  ” — or  whether  he  will  first  “ point  out  ” — like  B’rer 
Rabbit.  But  that’s  neither  here  nor  there  ! 

‘ I put  aside  my  long  novel,1  because  with  Kultur  in  full  swing  I felt 
I should  spoil  it.  I took  up  an  old  beginning — sketched  in  immediately 
after  Joe  Vance — and  have  got  about  half-way  through,  with  great  difficulty. 
The  trafl  of  the  poison  gas  is  over  us  all  here,  and  I can  only  get  poor 
comfort  from  thinking  what  a many  submarines  we  have  made  permanently 
so.  All  the  same,  one  of  my  favourite  employments  is  thinking  how  to 
add  to  their  number — a grisly  committee — coffins  full  of  men  very  like 
our  own.  For  all  seamen  are  noble,  because  they  live  face  to  face  with 
Death. 

* I won’t  twaddle  on  to  a second  sheet,  but  will  be  content  to  say  how 
glad  I am  to  know  you  are  still  going  strong,  and  to  send  you  cordial  good 
wishes  for  the  current  new  year  and  Xmas.  My  wife  joins  me  in  all  kind 
remembrances  to  you  and  yours. 

* Always  yours, 

* Wm.  De  Morgan.’ 

With  unfailing  generosity  De  Morgan  contributed  to  war- 
time charities,  while  his  pen  worked  nimbly  in  constant  propa- 
ganda designed  to  promote  a better  comprehension,  both  at 
home  and  abroad,  of  the  cause  in  which  England  was  ungrudgingly 
expending  blood  and  gold.  But  when  he  was  asked  to  send  a 
large  consignment  of  his  books  to  many  of  the  hospitals,  he 
agreed  only  on  the  condition  that  other  authors  joined  in  the 
undertaking — ‘ Otherwise,’  he  explained,  ‘ it  would  look  so 
bumptious  ! ’ This  impression  was  perhaps  confirmed  by  a 
letter  from  Mrs.  Mackail  describing  the  effect  of  such  a gift  to 
a non-military  hospital. 

Margaret  Mackail  to  Evelyn  De  Morgan . 

* Thanks  for  the  hospital.  Once  on  my  rounds  there  I approached 
the  bed  of  a man  with  a bundle  of  books  in  my  arms  and  asked  him  if 
he  would  like  one.  He  answered,  “ Thank  you,  I am  very  well  acquainted 
with  literature,  and  have  no  need  of  books.” 

* I then  addressed  myself  to  conversation,  and  said,  rather  foolishly, 
that  I always  felt  sorry  for  the  men  being  cut  off  their  tobacco  while  in 
hospital,  for  it  passed  the  time.  His  reply  was  in  these  Bible  words  which 
impressed  themselves  for  ever  on  an  otherwise  not  retentive  memory  : — 


1 The  Old  Man's  Youth  and  the  Young  Man's  Old  Age, 


Study  in  Chalk  for  the  Moonbeams  Dipping  into  the  Sea 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  pinxit 

[In  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Stirling. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  OLD  AGE  369 

* 44  Thank  you,  I have  my  passions  and  appetites  so  completely  under 
control  that  it  is  a matter  of  indifference  to  me  of  what  pleasure  I am 
deprived.” 

‘ So  then  I went  on  to  the  next  bed  hoping  that  it  would  be  a long  time 
before  he  got  well  enough  to  leave,  so  that  his  wife  might  have  a real 
holiday  from  him. 

* So  you  see  what  an  excellent  hospital  it  is.’ 

Evelyn  likewise  agreed  to  have  an  exhibition  in  her  studio 
of  the  series  of  symbolic  ‘ War-pictures  5 on  which  she  had  been 
engaged ; and  although  at  this  exhibition  none  of  her  work 
was  for  sale,  and  the  money  was  procured  by  entrance  fees  only, 
she  thus  secured  a considerable  sum  for  the  English  and  Italian 
Red  Cross  charities.  Among  many  letters  subsequently  received 
by  her  was  the  following  from  an  artist,  then  in  his  eighty-fifth 
year,  the  senior  member  of  the  International  Peace  Bureau.1 * * 


Felix  Moscheles  to  Evelyn  De  Morgan. 

‘ The  Grelix, 

* 80  Elm  Park  Road,  S.W. 

* Dear  Mrs.  De  Morgan, — 

* I came — I saw — and  you  conquered  ! Once  more  I was  fully 
impressed  by  the  loftiness  of  your  conceptions  which  pervade  all  your 
work,  and  by  the  masterly  execution  which  enables  you  to  give  concrete 
form  to  your  abstract  ideals.  Your  drawing  severely  discards  the  non- 
essential  and  your  colours  are  merged  like  those  of  the  rainbow  that  pro- 
mises peace  and  harmonies.  Recalling  your  pictures  I seem  to  hear  your 
triumphant  Angels  singing  Hallelujah  ! as  they  repulse  my  well-hated 
enemy,  the  Demon  of  War.  Thanhs  ! More  verbally. 

* Most  sincerely  Yrs., 

‘ Felix  Moscheles 

* March  20 — 1916.* 

As  the  Great  Powers  closed  in  a yet  tighter  death- grip,  while 
thrones  and  nationalities  rocked  with  the  clash  of  arms  and 
toppled  to  their  ruin,  De  Morgan  became  more  and  more  obsessed 
with  the  nightmare  of  the  fray.  He  could  no  longer  pursue  his 
peaceful,  leisurely  fiction.  * I find  I can't  write  worth  a cent,5 
he  remarked  sadly  to  his  cousin  Walter  De  Morgan ; * German 
Culture  has  shadowed  everything — my  mind  included.  This 
hideous  war  has  knocked  me  silly,  and  I can  think  of  nothing 
but  how  to  tackle  submarines — that  is  the  great  problem  nowa- 
days. If  they  can't  be  squashed,  civilization  may  go  to  the 
wadi. 5 To  an  American  author,  Mr.  Williams,  who  sent  him  a 
copy  of  his  first  novel,  he  explained  : — 

1 This  Bureau  used  to  be  the  standing  committee  of  all  the  Peace 

Societies  of  the  world.  Felix  Moscheles,  in  honour  of  whose  birth  Felix 
Mendelssohn  composed  his  4 Cradle  Song,’  was  also  for  many  years 

President  of  the  International  Arbitration  Association. 


AA 


37° 


WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


* 127  Church  Street, 

‘ Chelsea,  S.W., 

t ‘ 4 June , 1916. 

* I have  received  your  book,  and  thank  you  most  cordially  for  sending 
it  to  me.  But  I am  afraid  it  must  wait  a while  for  me  to  have  any  chance 
of  reading  it  with  any  enjoyment.  Many  books  are  waiting  for  me  to 
recover  some  power  of  fixing  my  attention  on  a page  of  print.  It  is 
literally  true  that  I have  lost  all  power  of  following  a story,  however 
consecutively  it  may  be  written.  I trace  this  partly  to  writing  overmuch 
myself,  at  too  advanced  an  age  ; partly  to  the  constant  wear  and  tear  of 
nerves  from  the  terrible  strife  of  the  times.  Until  we  may  say  again 
cedant  arma  togae,  concedat  laurea  laudi , the  arts  and  literature  must  take 
a back  seat. 

‘ But  thank  you  again  for  sending  it  to  me.  I hope  History  and 
Sanity  may  shake  hands,  and  allow  me  to  complete  a book  of  my  own,  and 
to  read  some  one  else’s. 

Very  truly  yours, 

‘ Wm.  De  Morgan.’ 

To  Mr.  Ellis  at  this  date  he  also  observed : — 

‘ 23 rd  June , 1916. 

‘ I find  the  only  time  I succeed  in  writing  is  the  afternoon  ; as  the 
day’s  work  is  liable  to  be  spoilt  if  I go  out  late,  the  conjunction  of  cir- 
cumstances practically  keeps  me  from  going  out,  at  least  until  I see  my 
way  to  the  end.  . . . The  war  has  paralysed  my  inventive  powers,  or 
such  as  are  left  of  them  and  I can't  get  ahead. 

* We  may  see  better  days  soon — let  us  hope  for  them  ! ’ 

‘ Nov.  18 th,  1916. 

‘ You  are  quite  right  in  saying  I never  go  out — I don’t  and  shan’t  till 
the  Allies  are  in  Berlin — I may  go  then,  as  things  seem  now  ! I was  77 
two  days  ago  ! ! ! ’ 

To  his  cousin,  Walter  De  Morgan,  he  wrote  again  that  same 
year : — 

* I try  to  write  but  don’t  succeed.  How  can  one  do  anything  with 
the  world  as  it  is  ? 

‘ I am  interesting  myself  more  and  more  in  Aircraft,  Submarines, 
Torpedoes,  etc.  If  I was  a millionaire  I should  have  a thousand  experi- 
ments going  on. 

‘ Have  you  ever  seen  a real  torpedo  ? What  is  his  nose  like — pointed 
or  capped  ? I have  seen  pictures  of  both.  Perhaps  one  was  his  war- 
nose,  and  the  other  for  common  use. 

‘ Better  luck  to  us  all  next  century  ! ’ 

As  his  power  of  concentration  upon  literary  work  diminished, 
his  old  love  of  scientific  experiment  revived.  The  prosecution  of 
modern  warfare  under  novel  conditions  had  roused  all  his  former 
enthusiasm  for  scientific  research ; and  every  possible  means 
for  circumventing  attacks  from  the  enemy  absorbed  his  attention. 
A great  part  of  his  time  was  now  devoted  to  making  experiments 
at  the  Polytechnic,  where  he  approached  each  problem  with 
the  enthusiasm  of  a boy  ; and  many  were  the  carefully  worked- 
out  schemes  and  inventions  which  he  sent  up  to  the  War  Office 
or  to  the  Board  of  Admiralty,  most  of  these  showing  a knowledge 


THE  YOUNG  MAN’S  OLD  AGE 


37i 

of  technical  detail  as  minute  as  though  he  had  devoted  a lifetime 
to  their  elucidation.  ‘ Thus,’  wrote  his  wife  regretfully,  later, 
‘ much  valuable  time  was  stolen  from  literature.’  Moreover,  as 
in  his  youth,  his  zeal  soon  outsped  his  discretion  ; and  on  one 
occasion  when  a public  room  had  been  lent  to  him  for  the  purpose 
of  prosecuting  an  experiment,  he  successfully  achieved  an  explo- 
sion which  blew  out  all  the  windows  ; after  which  it  was  politely 
intimated  to  him  that  his  presence  would,  in  future,  be  dispensed 
with. 

‘ Innocently  expecting  the  hydrogen  to  burn  like  a Christian,  with  a 
lambent  flame,  scarcely  visible  by  daylight,’  [he  explained  when  referring 
to  this  incident],  ‘ we  put  a match  to  the  hydrogen  bottle.  It  busted  with 
a loud  report  and  blew  out  a lot  of  glass.  . . . Mr.  Skinner,  the  Principal 
at  the  Polytechnic,  tells  me  that  Dewar  made  a lot  of  experiments  on  the 
knack  hydrogen  has  of  escaping.  Really,  Jack  Sheppard  and  Monte- 
cristo  are  not  in  it ! ’ 

Despite  this  misadventure,  however,  he  still  wrote  triumph- 
antly : ‘ I have  got  no  end  of  inventions  afoot,  though  I am  not 
absolutely  certain  of  any  but  one — a new  airship.  So  I shall 
only  push  that  one.’  It  is  sad  to  reflect  that  it  was  this  very 
enthusiasm  which  brought  to  pass  the  final  tragedy.  ‘ Things 
seldom  happen  to  me  quite  as  they  happen  to  other  folk,’  he  said 
once ; and  even  Death  came  to  him  in  unusual  guise. 

The  story  must  be  told  from  a personal  standpoint. 

There  are  days  in  life  which  remain  for  ever  after  stamped 
on  the  memory  with  a vividness  out  of  all  proportion  to  their 
actual  importance.  Their  very  triviality  becomes  memorized 
in  its  placid  contrast  to  some  tragic  sequel.  So  it  is  with  the 
closing  scenes  of  De  Morgan’s  life. 

Christmas  Day,  1916,  passed  peacefully,  with  its  immunity 
from  air-raids  and  its  increased  allowance  of  provisions,  having 
even  a semblance  of  festivity.  William  and  Evelyn  came  to 
luncheon,  and  never  had  he  seemed  in  better  health  and  spirits. 
The  constitutional  delicacy  which  had  haunted  his  younger 
days  seemed  to  have  passed,  leaving  in  its  stead  an  autumnal 
vigour  of  mind  and  body  which  belied  the  seventy-seven  years 
of  a busy  life  that  had  drifted  over  him — belied,  above  all,  the 
stress  of  the  last  ten  years  and  of  all  which  he  had  accomplished 
since  the  publication  of  Joseph  Vance.  He  talked  happily,  full 
of  hope  and  confidence  in  the  ultimate  good  which  he  felt  sure 
was  approaching  a stricken,  blood-stained  world.  A vista  of 
peaceful  days  and  renewed  capacity  for  work  seemed  to  stretch 
before  him.  Even  the  crimson  roses — a Christmas  gift — with 
which  the  table  was  decorated  in  profusion,  were  to  him  a happy 
augury  of  summer  and  sunshine,  while  he  dwelt  with  aesthetic 
pleasure  on  their  gorgeous  petals  showing  in  velvet  beauty  against 
the  dark  oak  and  shining  silver. 


372  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

On  the  morrow.  Boxing  Day,  the  visit  was  returned.  We 
groped  our  way  through  the  darkened  streets  to  Church  Street, 
and  found  William  and  his  wife  dispensing  tea  to  a solitary  visitoi 
in  khaki.  The  stranger,  we  learnt,  was  an  officer  from  the 
front ; he  had  come  from  France  on  the  previous  day ; and  hav- 
ing read  Joseph  Vance  in  the  trenches  he  had  determined  that 
his  first  visit  in  England  should  be  to  the  author  of  the  book  he 
had  so  much  enjoyed.  * There  was  a Fate  about  it/  Evelyn 
remarked  lightly.  ‘ Knowing  the  servants  would  be  out  to-day, 
I wrote  to  tell  him  not  to  come,  but  he  never  got  the  letter/ 
There  was  a Fate  about  it,  perhaps,  of  which  she  little  dreamed. 

We  sat  on  through  the  dusk,  the  room  lit  only  by  dim  candles 
and  the  ruddy  gleam  of  the  fire.  As  desultory  talk  rose  and 
fell,  it  transpired  that  the  officer  was  in  the  Air  Force,  and  William 
eagerly  seized  upon  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  to  gain  informa- 
tion on  a problem  connected  with  his  new  flying  machine  which 
had  baffled  him.  * I wish  you  would  look  at  a model  of  an 
aeroplane  I am  constructing/  he  said.  ‘ Come  to  my  study — 
the  light  is  better  there  for  seeing  it/  The  two  men  left  the 
room.  For  half  an  hour  they  were  shut  up  in  close  proximity 
in  William’s  little  sitting-room  ; then  they  returned ; and  the 
stranger  said  good-bye. 

Out  in  the  hall  we  heard  them  talking.  William  had  dis- 
covered connecting  links  among  acquaintances  common  to  them 
both,  and  was  plying  his  new  friend  with  questions  concerning 
these.  The  stranger’s  final  answer  came  with  a note  of  melan- 
choly : ‘ My  father  is  dead,  my  mother  is  dead  ; my  aunt  whom 
you  remember  is  dead — every  one  connected  with  me  is  dead. 
Good-bye.’  And  as  William  came  back  into  the  room  he  observed 
quaintly  in  reference  to  the  visitor’s  last  remark,  ‘ Well — that’s 
a nice  cheerful  state  of  affairs — Every  one  connected  with  him  is 
dead  ! I thought,  under  the  circumstances,  there  was  only  one 
thing  to  be  done — so  I gave  him  a copy  of  When  Ghost  Meets 
Ghost ! ’ 

That  was  on  Tuesday.  On  the  following  Friday  evening, 
December  29,  William,  feeling  strangely  tired,  laid  down  his 
pen  in  the  middle  of  an  unfinished  sentence  in  The  Old  Mad 
House.  By  the  morning  he  was  ill ; before  nightfall  he  was 
raving  in  the  delirium  of  trench  fever.  For  seventeen  days  that 
continued  ; and  during  all  that  time  he  believed  he  was  a wounded 
soldier  in  a hospital  in  France.  With  piteous  reiteration  he  kept 
imploring  that  some  one  would  take  him  back  to  his  home — to 
his  wife,  while  she,  poor  soul,  sat,  a frozen  image  of  grief,  waiting 
for  the  one  moment  of  recognition,  the  one  word  of  farewell 
which  was  never  granted.  On  the  seventeenth  day  he  found 
rest ; and  she  was  left  to  face  a darkened  world  with  a broker 
heart. 


THE  YOUNG  MAN’S  OLD  AGE 


373 


And  as  he  lay  dead,  the  following  letter  came : — 

A Stranger  to  William  De  Morgan. 

* Washington, 

* January  i st,  1917. 

* Dear  Father  of  Joey  and  Lossie,  Saucy  Sally,  loving  little  Lizerann 
and  brave  blind  Jim,  sweet  old  Mrs.  Picture  and  darling  Alice-for-Short, 
on  this  bright  New  Year’s  day  I want  to  write  to  you  friendlywise.  I truly 
believe  that  the  people  you  have  created  for  me  are  more  real,  more 
tangible,  more  comfortable,  than  any  others  I have  met,  in  literature,  or 
out  of  it. 

* In  this  present  tragic  hour  your  books  have  been  my  greatest  comfort 
— for  your  view  of  life,  too,  is  the  real  one — more  real  than  the  other,  I 
keep  telling  myself.  Some  day  we  humans  now  at  variance  will  be  able 
to  understand  each  other  once  more,  and  once  more  find  each  other  kind 
and  amusing,  and  good  for  every-day  hard  wear. 

‘ You  taught  me  to  love  a good  fight ; but  I can’t  love  this  fight,  or 
feel  hopeful  of  the  sort  of  blessings  which  will  be  the  outcome.  . . . Then 
I remember  such  affection  as  Lizerann’ s and  Blind  Jim’s — so  lovely,  it  is 
its  own  excuse  for  being  ; and  then  I remember  that,  before  the  war  there 
was  a man  in  England  whose  books  oozed  love  and  tenderness  in  every 
line,  not  by  preachments,  but  by  a gracious,  mirthful  humour  which 
warms  and  heartens.  There  is  no  “ for  a’  that  ” with  you.  The  trim- 
mings are  all  in  the  picture — a necessary  part  or  background — explaining, 
heightening,  vivifying  each  character,  never  condemning  by  excuse. 

‘ I wish  you  a happy  New  Year,  wondering  what  new  brain-children 
for  us  to  love  you  are  creating  now — if  (shall  I say  as  I pray  God  is  the 
case  ?) — you  can  still  write  to  the  thunder  of  the  guns.’ 

During  the  days  which  followed,  other  letters  came  to  the 
silent  house,  bringing  the  balm  of  a sympathy  expressed  in  sor- 
rowing words  : ‘ How  sad  it  all  is  ! ' Sir  William  Richmond 
wrote  to  Evelyn.  ‘ How  I feel  for  you  in  the  loss  of  your  com- 
panion, and  such  a gentle  one,  for  so  many  years.  . . . He 
never  grew  old,  he  changed  nothing  since  I first  knew  him  fifty- 
six  years  ago.  I expect,  with  his  ups  and  downs  counted,  he  had 
a very  happy  life,  such  simple  characters  usually  have/  ‘ He 
was  a wonderful  man/  wrote  Sir  Edward  Poynter,  ‘ and  his 
beautiful  nature  came  out  in  his  books  and  his  intercourse  with 
his  friends.  I do  not  believe  he  ever  had  an  evil  thought  in  his 
life.  Everybody  who  knew  him  will  regret  his  loss  and  his 
delightfully  sympathetic  and  amusing  conversation/  Maurice 
Hewlett  likewise  wrote : ‘ I value  everything  I can  remember 
of  him.  I feel  myself  the  better  man  for  having  known  him. 
As  for  his  books,  they  are  part  of  himself,  and  I have  almost 
made  them  part  of  myself ; they  are  unique,  as  all  books  must 
be  which  faithfully  express  so  rare  a spirit  as  his.  Those  who 
love  them  will  not  let  them  die  ; and  the  number  of  their  lovers 
will  increase/ 

One  letter  of  a more  personal  nature  may  perhaps  be 
quoted : — 


374  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

Lady  Burne-Jones  to  Mrs . De  Morgan. 

‘ Rottingdean, 

* Jan.  19,  1917. 

* My  poor  dear  Girl  (always  that  to  me),— 

‘ The  news  of  your  bereavement  only  reached  me  this  morning,  and 
is  hard  to  believe.  Yours  was  one  of  the  blessed  marriages,  and  it  will 
never  end,  but  the  pain  of  this  separation  cannot  be  expressed  either  by 
you  or  your  friends.  I only  write  to  say  that  I have  heard  of  it,  and  that 
I am  with  you  at  heart. 

‘ I long  to  know  something  of  you — and  shall  do  so  in  time  ...  at 
such  a time,  however,  details  have  ceased  to  be  important — all  is  swallowed 
up  in  the  tremendous  fact. 

‘ The  thought  of  trench-fever  and  its  seeking  a victim  here  is  tragic 
among  a thousand  tragedies.  I heard  that  he  took  the  war  very  much  tc 
heart.  . . . 

‘ I ha  ve  a treasured  remembrance  of  the  last  time  I saw  him  when  1 
was  cheered  to  see  him  looking  better  and  younger  than  when  we  had  met 
before.  . . . His  immovable  friendship  is  in  no  way  dimmed  to  me  by 
death — as  it  never  was  by  distance  of  time  or  place  ; for  me  he  cannot 
die,  but  still  lives,  amongst  memories  that  nothing  can  wipe  out.  And  foi 
this  I am  very  thankful. 

‘ For  all  the  long  years  of  our  unchanging  friendship  I thank  God  ; 
and  for  how  much  more  must  you  have  to  return  thanks, — none  but 
yourself  knows.  In  these  terrible  days  it  is  beautiful  to  feel  that  the 
best  things  remain  unchanged,  and  that  Love  is  still  the  key  of  the  world. 

‘ My  dear,  forgive  these  stumbling  words — but  it  touches  me  to  the 
heart  for  you. 

* Always  your  affectionate  old  friend, 

‘ G.  Burne-Jones.’ 

By  and  by,  hundreds  wrote  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  and 
one  perhaps  spoke  the  feelings  of  all  those  unknown  friends : — 

* I never  saw  him,  yet  I feel,  as  many  will  feel  when  they  read  the 
news  of  his  death,  that  I have  lost  a dear  friend.  I am  reading  his  last 
book,  and  in  reading  I seem  to  know  the  tone  of  his  voice  and  to  feel  the 
sunshine  of  his  spirit.  He  has  left  a very  precious  legacy  to  a world  which 
will  not  forget. 

Among  the  many  Obituary  notices  which  appeared  after  his 
death  one  in  the  Manchester  Guardian  may  be  cited  for  its  especial 
insight : — 

‘ With  the  death  of  Mr.  William  De  Morgan  our  day  suffers  a loss  of 
a kind  it  can  very  ill  afford.  Intellectual  brilliancy  is  fairly  common 
among  us,  but  intellectual  brilliancy  entirely  subdued  to  the  service  of 
observation  and  sympathy  is  exceedingly  rare.  . . . 

‘ His  peculiar  achievement  lies  in  the  degree  in  which  he  has  placed 
the  characteristics  of  our  contemporary  life  in  permanent  horizons.  . . . 
From  his  vantage  ground  of  years  he  has  perceived  characteristics  of  our 
generation  as  we  who  belong  to  it  never  could  have  done.  His  open- 
mindedness  and  perception  have  been  amazing  ; to  the  end  he  was  singu- 
larly up-to-date,  singularly  au  fait  with  all  the  most  modern  of  our  pessi- 
misms ; yet  ever  and  always  he  has  seen  the  heart  of  life  as  “ somehow 
good  ” ; all  his  complex  understanding  resulted  only  in  the  deepening 
and  strengthening  of  his  humanity  and  his  hope.  He  has  understood 
the  complexities  of  modem  existence  (had  he  not,  he  would  have  been 


THE  YOUNG  MAN'S  OLD  AGE 


375 

of  small  use  to  our  day).  But  beneath  and  behind  these  things  he  ever 
recalls  us,  should  we  perchance  have  forgotten  them,  to  the  simple  well- 
springs  of  happiness  and  of  life. 

‘ Foremost,  perhaps,  in  our  gratitude  to-day  will  be  thanks  for  the 
laughter,  the  rollicking  entertainment  he  has  given  us.  His  books  have 
brimmed  with  a fun  that  in  its  breadth  and  its  sanity  is  almost  Shake- 
spearean. . . . Yet  it  is  on  the  deepest,  the  most  serious  of  notes 
that  our  tribute,  if  it  is  to  touch  the  highest  of  his  gifts,  must  come 
to  rest.  Passionate  lover  of  human  beauty  that  h6  was,  Mr.  De 
Morgan  had  to  outlive  the  most  splendid  and  vital  of  his  comrades. 
Before  he  began  writing  books  the  engrossing  question  seemed  to  him  to 
be  (and  is  there  any  other  that  really  appears  engrossing  as  life  goes  on  ?) 
the  question  as  to  personal  immortality,  the  nature  of  human  identity. 
That  problem  Mr.  De  Morgan  was  pursuing  from  the  first  to  the  last  of 
his  novels.  Which  of  us  who  has  read  it  can  forget  the  “ ghost  in  the 
corpse  ” conversation  in  Joseph  Vance  ; which  of  us  has  dared  to  question 
Lizerann's  appearance  to  Jim  Coupland  at  the  moment  of  his  death  ; 
which  of  us  has  not  wrestled,  battled  alongside  as  it  were,  the  facing  of 
the  problem  from  its  roots  in  When  Ghost  Meets  Ghost  ? 

‘ This,  then,  among  innumerable  minor  gifts,  is  Mr.  De  Morgan’s 
priceless  bequest  to  us.  He  has  stood  outside  (almost  aggressively  out- 
side) religious  denominations.  That,  perhaps,  is  what  has  given  his 
“ neither  doth  corruption  inherit  incorruption  ” its  bell-like  and  resonant 
quality.  He  felt,  and  out  of  the  depth  and  richness  of  his  feeling  he  has 
communicated  to  us,  poignant  sadness  at  the  transiency  of  life  upon 
earth.  Artist  that  he  was,  he  might,  as  the  lesser  artists  almost  always 
have  done,  have  employed  his  powers  in  building  palaces,  “ poetic  ” 
shelters  from  the  facts,  for  himself  and  his  peers.  He  chose,  instead,  to 
face  life  unflinchingly.  He  took  the  myriad  facets,  activities,  perversities 
of  contemporary  society,  and  so  endeared  to  us  person  after  person  and 
type  after  type  that  with  his  gallery — his  revelation  of  underlying  unity 
and  beauty — before  us  we  dare  not,  while  his  spell  is  over  us  at  least, 
doubt  that  there  is  something  more  eternal  in  human  personality  than  in 
any  of  the  phenomena  enveloping  existence.’ 

In  life,  De  Morgan  had  more  than  once  been  compared  to 
his  own  heroine  Lossie,  of  whom  it  was  said  that  when  she  entered 
a room  it  was  as  though  some  one  had  suddenly  drawn  up  the 
blinds  and  let  in  the  sunshine.  A many-sided  genius,  with  his 
wonderful  work  as  a ceramic  artist,  his  knowledge  as  a scientist 
and  an  inventor,  and  his  final  revelation  as  a novelist,  he  had 
been  acclaimed  as  an  Idealist  and  yet  a Realist,  a resuscitation 
from  a long-dead  Past,  and  yet  a modern  of  the  moderns.  But 
the  aspect  of  his  character  which,  in  death,  dwelt  most  linger- 
ingly in  the  hearts  of  his  fellows  was  his  gift  of  eternal  youth, 
of  immortal  hope,  of  inextinguishable  love  and  laughter.  In 
their  remembrance  he  lived  as  they  had  known  him — delightful 
in  his  simplicity,  his  kindly  spirit,  his  bubbling  fun,  his  unruffled 
contentment — a man  who,  to  the  last,  had  retained,  untarnished, 
the  heart  of  a little  child. 

* * * * $ 

On  January  23  the  mortal  remains  of  William  De  Morgan 
were  borne  to  the  Old  Church,  facing  the  grey  river;  that 


376  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

ancient  building  which  for  so  many  years  in  his  thoughts  had 
enshrined  the  history  and  the  romance  of  Chelsea.  There  undei 
a violet  pall  he  slept,  while  in  the  grey  light  of  a wintry  day 
sweet  boy-voices  sang  his  requiem.  Among  the  mourners  were 
the  children  and  the  grandchildren  of  Burne-Jones,  and  the 
daughter  of  William  Morris ; while  numbers  who  had  never 
known  him  in  life  came  to  pay  a last  tribute  to  the  man  whose 
genius  had  gladdened  them,  and  whose  rare  personality  had  won 
an  affection  such  as  few  men  win.  Thus  amidst  the  music  and 
the  flowers  he  had  once  rejoiced  in,  he  passed  on  to  his  final 
resting-place  in  Brookwood  Cemetery,  then  a lovely  space  of 
unspoilt  moorland,  where,  about  the  spot  chosen  for  his  grave, 
the  heather  grew  thickly,  and  the  wind  in  the  pine-trees  sang  an 
eternal  dirge.  And  there,  as  the  coffin  sank  to  earth,  Florentine 
blossoms  from  the  land  he  had  loved  mingled  with  the  snowflakes 
which  were  falling  fast,  while  from  the  silence  that  had  engulfed 
him  one  seemed  to  hear  again  the  voice  of  the  brave  spirit  which 
had  fled : — 

‘ I am  ready  for  extinction  or  extension,  whichever  and  whenever. 
Only  if  the  latter,  all  I stipulate  for  is  absolute  good  on  the  terms  that 
the  Master  shall  manage  it,  and  that  we  shall  all  be  safeguarded  against 
the  rack  of  this  tough  world.’ 


William  Frend  De  Morgan, 

1839-1917. 

Artist. : Potter  : Inventor  : Novelist. 

“ Sorrow  is  only  of  Earth, 

The  life  of  the  Spirit  is  joy.” 

Headstone  designed  hy  Evelyn  De  Morgan  for  the  grave  of  William  De  Morgan. 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THE  ‘LONG  DIMINUENDO® 


1917-1919 


* If  Chance  should  to  my  workshop  send 
A certain  silent  fleshless  friend, 

Then  while  Day  lasts  Thy  legions  lend 
And  hold  him  from  the  stair  ! 

But  when  the  best  tool  slips  away. 

And  he  would  idle  who  must  stay. 

If  once  against  the  Dark  I’d  pray— 
Deliver  me  from  prayer  ! ’ 


ITTLE  more  remains  to  tell ; and  it  must  be  told  in  a 


minor  key.  In  the  solitary  home  Evelyn  De  Morgan 
took  up  life  again  with  a fine  courage,  but  a grief  so  intense  that 
before  it  even  sympathy  was  hushed  to  silence.  Body  and  soul 
were  alike  smitten  by  the  blow  which  had  fallen  ; and  during  the 
dark  months  which  followed,  it  was  as  though  the  frail  tenement, 
propelled  by  an  indomitable  will  but  waxing  ever  more  and  more 
ethereal,  fought  on  pathetically,  while  the  spirit  which  had  ani- 
mated it  was  far  away.  Looking  at  her  sometimes  one  thought 
of  a sentence  which  her  husband  had  written  in  his  last  book  : 
‘ All  the  Hereafters  in  the  Universe  would  be  no  worse  for  me 
than  life  in  the  dark  without  you,  here  and  now/ 

‘ One  felt/  relates  Miss  Morris,  ‘ that  it  was  only  her  high 
courage  and  that  instinct  spoken  of  by  William  Morris  as  “ desir- 
ing to  see  the  play  played  out  ” that  kept  her  spirit  battling  here. 
The  house  was  empty,  the  hearth  cold ; often  on  visiting  her, 
amid  pauses  in  some  intimate  evening  of  music  and  talks  of 
Italy  and  former  days,  with  her  portrait  of  the  old  friend  looking 
down  upon  us  and  his  work  all  about,  one  felt  this  acutely,  and 
behind  the  cheery  good-night  was  the  unspoken  understanding 
and  the  shared  sense  of  loss/ 

But  there  was  work  still  to  be  accomplished,  and  she  grasped 
the  severed  threads  of  life  bravely.  ‘ Mr.  De  Morgan/  announced 
the  Press,  ‘ has  done  what  none  of  his  readers  will  ever  be  able 
to  do — he  has  left  one  of  his  novels  unfinished  ! ' Moreover,  the 
chain  of  coincidence  connected  with  his  fiction  had  followed  it 


378  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

to  the  last,  and  the  similarity  between  the  uncompleted  novel 
by  Charles  Dickens,  and  the  uncompleted  novel,  The  Old  Mad 
House , by  De  Morgan,  was  at  once  remarked,  since  both  dealt 
with  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  one  of  the  characters. 
But  in  De  Morgan’s  case  he  had  discussed  the  denouement  with 
his  wife,  and  she  was  enabled  to  supply  the  missing  finale.  As 
his  work  had  first  owed  its  existence  to  her,  so  she  now  determined 
that  no  measure  of  it  should  be  wasted. 

With  a skill  which  requires  no  comment,  she  summarized 
the  conclusion  he  had  projected,  condensing  the  remainder  of 
a long  and  intricate  plot  into  one  brief  chapter,  revealing  the 
mystery  on  which  the  tale  had  hinged  in  language  so  simple 
and  yet  so  graphic  that  the  horror  of  the  culminating  tragedy 
is  accentuated  by  her  reticence ; while  the  reader  can  feel  no 
disruption  in  the  continuity  of  the  story,  no  alteration  in  the 
manner  of  its  telling  from  the  point  where  she  took  up  the  pen 
that  had  fallen  from  a dead  hand.  The  whole  was  dedicated 
by  her  to  the  American  readers  whose  appreciation  of  the 
deceased  novelist’s  work  had  given  him  some  of  the  happiest 
moments  of  his  life. 

This  novel,  however,  of  which  she  never  lived  to  see  the 
publication,  is,  admittedly,  not  the  best  specimen  of  De  Morgan’s 
fiction.  At  the  time  of  writing  it,  as  we  have  seen,  he  had  been 
too  much  obsessed  with  other  thoughts — the  lure  of  numberless 
scientific  experiments  and  inventions  on  which  he  was  engaged, 
the  nightmare  and  the  tension  of  the  war — all  had  combined  to 
distract  his  attention ; and  revision  had  subsequently  been 
denied  him.  Thus,  despite  the  undoubted  interest  of  the  volume, 
one  misses  in  it  something  of  the  charm  of  his  happier  manner — 
the  shrewd  philosophy,  the  quaint  conceits,  the  nimble  wit — 
in  brief,  ‘ the  personality  which  is  all  in  all  in  the  De  Morgan 
novels.’ 

The  other  unfinished  manuscript  which  he  had  judiciously 
set  aside  fearing  to  ‘ spoil  it  ’ during  a period  of  mental  tension, 
would  undoubtedly,  if  concluded,  have  been  one  of  his  finest 
achievements,  a greater  and  more  ‘ complete  human  document  ’ 
even  than  Joseph  Vance.  It  was  to  have  consisted  of  two  volumes, 
one  which  dealt  with  the  Old  Man’s  Youth,  and  the  other,  of 
profound  pathos,  which  told  the  story  of  the  Young  Man’s  Old 
Age ; yet  when  the  tragedy  occurred  which  the  writer  had 
dreaded,  and  his  materials  outlasted  him,  it  is  a matter  of  con- 
gratulation that  such  portion  of  the  novel  as  he  left  had  not 
been  marred  by  any  unwise  attempt  on  his  part  to  whip  a tired 
brain  into  producing  inferior  workmanship. 

At  first,  however,  Heinemann  pronounced  this  latter  manu- 
script to  be  too  incomplete  to  make  publication  possible.  For 
the  chapters  were  left  in  confusion ; in  some  cases  different 


THE  * LONG  DIMINUENDO  ’ 


379 

versions  of  them  existed  ; the  gaps  between  them  had  too  often 
no  connecting  links ; and,  above  all,  the  plot  lacked  all  hint  of 
its  intended  conclusion.  The  difficulty  of  rendering  the  whole 
readable  without  interference  with  the  text  seemed  insurmount- 
able ; but,  by  and  by,  Evelyn  saw  her  way  to  furnishing  the 
necessary  links  while  leaving  her  husband’s  original  work  un- 
touched ; and  the  Narrative  of  Eustace  John , written  by  De 
Morgan,  is  connected  by  chapters  entitled  The  Story , afterwards 
supplied  by  his  wife. 

A small  section  of  the  Press  later  found  cause  to  regret  that 
the  book  had  not  been  left  precisely  as  its  author,  William  De 
Morgan,  wrote  it,  without  those  interpolations  by  a different 
hand  ; but  such  critics,  who  were  in  the  minority,  failed  to  grasp 
how,  without  the  explanations  thus  afforded,  the  narrative 
lacked  in  point  and  even  coherence.  ‘ Mrs.  De  Morgan  has  done 
a very  difficult  task  most  admirably/  pronounced  Professor 
Phelps ; and  it  was  pointed  out  how  her  workmanship  was  like 
that  of  a clever  architect  who  skilfully  conserves  the  original 
beauty  of  some  structure  through  his  own  self-effacement.  For 
never  did  she  obtrude  her  own  personality ; neither  did  she 
yield  to  the  temptation  to  imitate  or  to  emulate  De  Morgan’s 
own  methods.  She  supplied  only  what  was  essential — what  she 
knew  the  author  himself  had  intended — and  she  presented  this  in 
a fashion  pithy,  concise  and  forcible,  but  wholly  distinct  from 
his  narrative,  which,  by  this  means  was  left  intact.1 

Eighteen  months  after  De  Morgan’s  death,  another  group 
of  distinguished  people  met  in  the  Old  Church  by  the  river  to 
do  honour  to  his  memory.  On  July  n,  1918,  one  more  monu- 
ment of  interest  was  added  to  the  history  of  that  ancient  building 
by  the  unveiling  of  a tablet  placed  there  in  remembrance  of  the 
dead  author.  Both  as  a ceramic  artist  and  as  a novelist  it 
was  felt  that  De  Morgan’s  work  had  primarily  centred  in  Chelsea 
— first  at  Orange  House,  then  at  the  Vale,  and  then,  during  the 
last  phase,  in  Church  Street ; and  it  seemed  fitting  to  com- 
memorate in  Chelsea  the  man  who  had  added  yet  another 
name  to  the  roll  of  celebrated  men  connected  with  that 
locality. 

His  old  friend  and  associate,  Mr.  Halsey  Ricardo,  Past  Master 
of  the  Art  Workers’  Guild,  undertook  the  design  of  the  memorial ; 
his  other  friend  and  associate,  Mr.  Reginald  Blunt,  worded  the 
inscription,  which  ran  as  follows  :■ — 

1 It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  book  was  published  in  England  with 
the  original  title  ( The  Old  Man's  Youth  and  the  Young  Man's  Old  Age ) 
curtailed,  and  thus  bereft  of  its  originality  and  point,  an  alteration  to 
which  neither  De  Morgan  nor  his  wife  would  have  consented. 


380  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 


To  the  Memory  of 
WILLIAM  FREND  DE  MORGAN 
Artist — Potter — Inventor — Novelist 
Bom  16th  November  1839  Died  15th  January  1917 

Who  did  much  of  his  best  work  in  Gheyne  Row,  The  Vale  and  Church  St.,  Ghelsea 

— where  he  died 

Recreating  in  Ceramic  work  upon  his  own  vigorous  designs  the  colour  of  the 
Persian  & the  lustre  of  the  great  Umbrian  craftsmen. 

Enriching  literature  by  his  faithful  & sympathetic  presentment  of  homely  & very 

human  character, 

And  beloved  by  all  who  knew  his  breadth  of  intellectual  interest,  his  catholic 
sympathy,  genial  humour  & lambent  wit. 

This  Tablet  is  Dedicated  by  some  of  His  Chelsea  and  Personal  Friends. 


When  the  day  arrived  for  the  ceremony  of  the  unveiling, 
the  service  which  preceded  this  took  place  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a strange  July  thunderstorm  which  blared  and  crashed  with 
relentless  fury,  alternately  plunging  the  picturesque  building  into 
gloom,  then  lighting  the  dim  arches  with  a lurid  gleam.  But  its 
rage  was  spent  and,  with  dramatic  effect,  a great  stillness  fell 
as  Miss  May  Morris,  standing  in  a pew  against  the  north  aisle, 
uncovered  the  memorial  of  her  father’s  life-long  friend.  With 
eloquent,  heartfelt  words  she  spoke  of  the  man  who  was  gone 
from  among  them  so  suddenly  ‘ with  work  unfulfilled,  the  brain 
still  rich  in  invention  ...  in  all  the  dignity  of  his  hopeful 
labours.’  Then  her  thoughts  turned  to  the  bygone  days  with 
which  her  own  girlhood  was  linked — to  those  earlier  labours  of 
the  dead  man  with  which  her  own  recollection  of  the  past 
mingled : — 

‘ It  is  over  those  activities  that  I love  to  linger  in  thought,  for,  fully 
as  I delight  in  the  power,  the  charm  of  his  literary  work,  the  earlier  days 
were  more  closely  linked  with  the  life  of  my  own  family ; De  Morgan 
was  one  of  the  circle  of  friends  who  rejoiced  in  each  other  in  work-days 
and  play-days,  who  had  ideals  in  common,  who  shared  a common  language 
and  understood  without  language.  The  story  of  that  bonded  life  is 
written  in  heart  and  brain  of  those  who  had  part  in  it ; you  who  are  all 
friends  here  will  understand  that  the  best  of  those  days  one  prefers  to 
remember  in  silence.  . . . 

‘ Men  test  their  friendship  as  well  as  character  less  by  working  together 
than  by  playing  together  ; many  have  worked  side  by  side  all  their  lives 
yet  never  shared  their  holiday  time.  To  unbend  in  common  and  enjoy 
each  other’s  quaintnesses,  to  court  the  shout  of  laughter  without  fear  of 
spoiling  or  of  wasting  the  common  stock  or  capital  of  love,  this  is  the 
privilege  of  the  men  whose  lives  were  built  up  on  generosity,  a free  giving 
of  themselves  and  their  love  and  their  talent,  and  who  understood  so  well 
the  maxim  “ Live  with  courage .” 

‘ I have  come  from  my  river-side  home  to  share  with  you  this  recording 
of  our  friendship,  and  there  is  not  an  alley  of  the  old  garden  that  does  not 
echo  with  the  laughter  of  those  days.  . . 


THE  * LONG  DIMINUENDO  ' 381 

She  went  on  to  speak  of  the  dream  long  cherished  by  her 
father  and  De  Morgan  that  they  should  combine  their  two  arts — 

* and  work  side  by  side  in  a beautiful  corner  of  the  Cotswold  country 
which  we  visited  on  one  of  our  family  excursions.  Perhaps  the  time  was 
not  ripe  for  such  a revival  of  Rural  Handicrafts  as  this  would  have  been 
in  the  hands  of  two  men  of  abnormal  energy  and  ceaseless  invention,  but 
it  was  loDg  talked  of  and  given  up  with  regret.  Their  happy  dream  of 
utilizing  the  handsome  old  factories  still  existing  everywhere  with  their 
clusters  of  sturdy  well-built  cottages,  and  thus  without  defacing  the 
country  beauty,  starting  the  revival  of  the  old  rural  industry  of  England, 
this  dream  may  prove  to  be  more  immediately  if  humbly  practical  than 
might  be  supposed.  In  those  days  it  was  not  considered  outside  our 
circle,  but  smiled  at  and  waved  aside.  If  it  does  become  a reality,  it 
must  be  remembered  with  gratitude  that  De  Morgan  was  among  the  pioneers 
who  spread  thoughts  that  blossom  into  deeds,  and  that  his  spirit,  with  all  its 
old  generosity,  will  be  active  still  among  the  forces  that  are  to  compel 
great  changes  on  the  inertia  and  anarchy  of  modern  life.  . . .* 

She  further  dwelt  on  the  fact  that  though,  in  practice,  in  his 
later  years,  De  Morgan  had  left  behind  him  the  activities  of 
earlier  life,  his  old  zest  in  matters  of  art  or  invention  was  never 
lost,  and  how  one  of  the  last  things  he  was  employed  on  was  an 
invention  for  use  in  the  war. 

* All  of  us  standing  here,’  she  concluded,  * will  remember  De  Morgan 
in  our  hearts,  needing  not  this  material  record  of  him.  It  is  for  the  stranger 
who  comes  to  pray  in  the  Old  Church  that  we  raise  it,  and  for  the  younger 
people — those  who  have,  perhaps,  played  as  children  beside  hearths 
decorated  with  ships  from  fairy  seas  that  have  moved  their  young  imagina- 
tion, and  that  they  have  dimly  known  as  “ De  Morgan  work  ” ; let  them — 
beginning  to  take  the  place  of  us  older  ones  in  the  life  of  art  and  invention — 
remember,  rather  with  kindness  and  friendship  than  with  hero  worship, 
the  names  of  the  noble  throng  of  men  and  women  whose  thoughts  and 
deeds  are  inevitably  knit  up  with  the  stuff  of  their  own  lives — among  them 
the  name  of  our  friend.’ 

As  reported  in  the  Press,  the  next  speaker,  Mr.  Edmund 
Gosse,  began  by  referring  to  the  great  adventure  of  De  Morgan’s 
life,  his  first  becoming  an  author  in  his  sixty-seventh  year,  at  an 
age  before  which  Balzac  and  Dickens,  Fielding  and  Zola  had  long 
been  dead.  After  enumerating  his  successive  novels,  Mr.  Gosse 
thus  defined  the  central  quality  of  De  Morgan’s  work  in  fiction  : — 

* I am  very  much  struck  with  the  tranquillity  of  De  Morgan’s  novels. 
There  seems  no  stress  in  them,  no  anxiety.  They  move  in  a social  world 
where  the  family  is  not  challenged,  where  religion  is  quietly  respected, 
where  property  enjoys  all  its  rights  and  where  the  army  scarcely  seems  to 
exist.  What  leisure  for  reflection,  what  long  hours  extended  in  an  easy 
chair  ! De  Morgan  seems  to  be  so  calmly  assured  of  the  stability  of  the 
social  order  that  even  those  errors  and  those  paradoxes  which  he  observes 
will  not  avail  to  disturb  his  equilibrium.  What  a storm  of  social  rebellion 
blows  under  the  smiling  surface  of  Dickens  ! What  revolt  against  con- 
vention in  Meredith  ! What  sullen  resignation  to  fate  in  the  vast  romances 
of  Thomas  Hardy  ! — William  De  Morgan  has  no  belief  in  the  approach 
of  a catastrophe. 


382  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

' Reviewing  other  characteristics  of  his  literary  work,  Mr.  Gosse 
mentioned  De  Morgan’s  love  of  his  fellow-men  as  an  outstanding  feature : — 
“ His  temperament,  whether  in  his  writing  or  his  art,  presented  an  image 
of  serene  confidence  in  humanity  not  found  elsewhere.  His  style  ignored 
the  French  manner  altogether  ; he  did  not  teach,  he  talked,  and  that 
leisurely,  with  a pervading,  tranquil  optimism.  His  books  had  uniformity 
and  a vivid  individuality,  although  qualities  such  as  form  and  construction 
were  matters  of  indifference  to  their  author.  He  was  a true  artist,  and 
in  these  iron  times,  we  do  well  to  remember  his  gentle,  loving  and 
loveable  individuality.” 

‘ Professor  Mackail  followed,  and  completed  the  tribute  to  De  Morgan 
as  an  artist  and  a writer  in  a fine  scholarly  speech,  adding  a touching, 
sympathetic  appreciation  of  the  man  and  the  friend.  He  emphasized 
De  Morgan’s  wide  range  of  interests,  his  close  touch  with  the  complexities 
of  London  life  and  London  types,  and  his  literary  kinship  with  Henry 
Kingsley,  whose  young  days  were  associated  with  Chelsea  Rectory  and 
Chelsea  Church.  . . .’ 

Thus  closed  the  simple  ceremony  which,  in  its  unaffected 
tribute  of  affection  and  admiration,  was  fitting  to  the  man  it 
was  designed  to  commemorate ; and  which  moreover,  to  many 
present,  seemed  to  knit  in  romantic  sequence  a long  train  of 
illustrious  dead  whose  memorials  hung  upon  the  ancient  walls, 
linking  the  days  of  William  De  Morgan  to  the  far-away  days  of 
his  precursor  in  literature,  Sir  Thomas  More. 

Meanwhile,  Evelyn  De  Morgan  was  engaged  upon  a memorial 
of  a different  type.  She  had  designed  and  modelled  a headstone 
for  her  husband’s  grave  which  was  afterwards  carved  in  marble 
under  the  supervision  of  Sir  George  Frampton,  and  is  a work 
of  beauty  and  pathos.  The  fine  disposal  of  the  draperies,  the 
grace  of  the  outline  noticeable  throughout,  are  yet  subordinate 
to  the  pervading  sense  which  it  conveys  of  repressed  but  poignant 
tragedy.  Two  figures  are  represented  in  bas-relief.  One,  a 
mourner,  bowed  with  grief,  is  extinguishing  a lighted  torch. 
All  the  anguish  of  a great  separation,  all  the  sorrow  of  a broken 
heart,  seem  expressed  in  the  profound  dejection  of  that  drooping 
figure  ; and  the  face  is  the  face  of  Evelyn  De  Morgan.  In  striking 
contrast,  by  the  side  of  the  sorrowful  form  a winged  and  joyous 
Psyche,  with  airy  poise  and  happy  gesture,  is  striving  to  wean 
her  from  her  grief.  Beneath  is  inscribed  a sentence  which 
occurred  in  one  of  the  letters  from  ‘ Angels  ’ written  in  automatic 
writing  by  Evelyn  and  her  husband  : — 

‘Sorrow  is  only  of  Earth;  the  life  of  the  Spirit  is  joy.’ 

While  this  bas-relief  was  being  completed,  Evelyn  was  likewise 
painting  with  the  persistence  of  happier  days.  The  keynote  of 
existence  to  her  had  been  work ; and  now  in  her  sorrow  the 
habit  remained  with  her,  and  brought  with  it  a measure  of 
consolation.  During  those  last  two  years  of  her  life,  her  achieve- 
ment showed  no  sign  of  diminished  energy,  since,  besides  finishing 
her  husband’s  two  novels  and  executing  the  monument  for  his 


THE  ' LONG  DIMINUENDO  ' 383 

grave,  as  related,  she  was  preparing  for  a fresh  exhibition  of 
war-pictures  which  she  intended  to  have  in  the  spring. 

Some  of  the  last  of  this  series  of  symbolic  paintings  had  been 
nearly  completed  in  the  autumn  of  1918.  One,  entitled  ‘A 
Scrap  of  Paper/  shows  Civilization,  a crowned  figure,  clad  in 
regal  purple,  sitting  amongst  the  wreckage  of  temples  and  fair 
palaces,  while  at  her  feet  lies  the  fatal  document  of  her  ruin, 
torn  in  half.  Another  picture  represents  ‘ The  Coming  of  Peace.’ 
A figure  of  serene  loveliness,  in  floating  draperies  of  transparent 
white  and  encircled  by  the  rainbow  of  promise,  is  seen  approaching 
over  a barren  land.  The  calm  beauty  of  her  face  is  yet  full  of 
a great  sadness,  as  though  reminiscent  of  past  pain  ; and  before 
her,  two  gigantic  blood-stained  hands,  emblematic  of  the  terror 
which  is  vanishing,  are  sinking,  writhing,  into  the  waters  in  the 
foreground. 

Still  penetrated  by  the  horror  of  the  war,  increased  now  by 
a profound  loneliness,  the  mentality  of  Evelyn  De  Morgan,  as 
reflected  in  her  pictures,  showed  something  of  the  grim  imagina- 
tion of  her  childhood.  * I feel  I must  tell  you/  wrote  Mrs. 
Stillman  after  visiting  her  studio,  ‘ what  a splendid  impression 
your  beautiful  work  made  on  me,  and  how  healing  in  this  terrible 
time  it  is  to  see  your  lovely  Peace  Madonna  and  others ; one 
would  wish  to  see  them  always  and  to  live  with  them  . . . but 
several  of  your  later  ones  frighten  me,  I confess,  and  I am  not 
sure  I feel  your  exquisite  work  should  be  used  in  that  way/ 
For  a sharp  divergence  was  noticeable  between  the  work  pro- 
duced by  Evelyn  during  this  last  sad  phase  and  the  fair,  joyous 
beauty  of  her  earlier  manner  when  each  picture  which  she 
achieved  was  a crystallized  poem,  a glory  of  colour  and  of  radiant 
dreams.  Into  her  loveliest  fancies  now  had  crept  a note  of 
tragedy,  a sense  of  evil  which  would  not  be  repressed.  In  only 
one,  perhaps,  belonging  to  this  period,  has  an  idea  of  poetic 
symbolism  materialized  from  her  brush  untouched  by  any  sorrow- 
ful influence — the  beautiful  little  picture  called  ‘ The  Moonbeams 
dipping  into  the  sea  * of  which  she  made  three  copies,  none  of 
which,  however,  were  finished. 

For  the  perpetual  darkness  of  that  winter  of  1918-19  made 
it  impossible  to  complete  the  work.  Grey,  sunless  skies  prevailed 
day  after  day  ; and  to  many  it  seemed  a time  of  yet  greater 
gloom,  physically  and  mentally,  than  any  that  had  preceded  it. 
None  were  immune  from  the  Shadow  and  the  stress  of  the  war. 
Prior  to  the  Armistice,  while  ten  kingdoms  were  locked  in  the 
final  thpoes  of  a fierce  death-struggle,  there  came  from  the  Con- 
tinent tales  of  woe  and  cruelty  calculated  to  unnerve  the  strongest ; 
and  even  with  the  suspension  of  hostilities  the  nightmare  of 
bloodshed  and  grief  still  brooded  over  a tortured  world.  The 
dawning  of  a year  of  peace  and  promise  brought  little  of  the 


384  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

anticipated  gladness,  while  the  prolongation  of  wintry  weather 
beyond  the  usual  period  served  further  to  undermine  the  endur- 
ance of  many  who  were  suffering  from  the  previous  strain,  or 
whose  constitutions  had  been  lowered  by  insufficient  and  less 
nourishing  food.  The  absence  of  sunshine  and  the  penetrating 
cold  continued  long  after  spring  should  have  brightened  the 
land ; and  the  coming  of  April  brought  no  relief.  ‘ I can't  get 
on  in  this  darkness/  Evelyn  complained,  as  she  waited  throughout 
the  month  with  her  unfinished  work  around  her — ‘ if  only  the 
sunlight  would  come  ! * Then  followed  a brief  spell  of  yet  more 
intense  cold,  of  snow,  of  bitter,  raking  blizzard ; and  when  it 
passed,  on  May  2,  Evelyn  De  Morgan  lay  dead. 

* * * * * 

When  Death  comes  with  tragic  suddenness,  the  little  homely 
accessories  of  daily  life  take  on  a new  and  pitiful  aspect.  Four 
days  before,  she  had  painted  from  dawn  to  dusk.  The  unfinished 
picture  stood  upon  the  easel,  the  paints  were  as  yet  wet  upon 
the  palette  : all  the  paraphernalia  lay  ready  for  the  continuance 
of  the  work  which  would  never  be  continued ; and  the  very  air 
seemed  penetrated  with  the  voice,  the  presence  that  were  gone 
for  ever.  Dying  thus  with  the  blight  of  Age  unknown,  she 
had  at  least  been  spared  one  crucial  sorrow  of  existence,  when 
the  passion  for  labour  outlasts  the  faculty  of  achieving  it.  But 
in  the  case  of  a very  vivid  personality,  full  of  vitality,  of  strongly 
marked  characteristics,  it  is  as  impossible  to  accept  its  swift 
extinction  as  it  is  to  connect  that  Thing  of  strange  and 
marble  beauty,  lying  so  still  in  the  mystery  of  dissolution,  with 
the  human  being  we  so  lately  loved — who  so  lately  was  full  of 
the  glad  restlessness  of  mood  and  motion.  It  is  the  quietude  of 
Death  even  more  than  its  unconcern  which  strikes  a chill  to  the 
mind  of  the  living. 

And  before  that  silence  which  had  fallen,  it  mattered  little 
what  name  the  doctor  called  the  malady  that  had  killed  her  in 
those  four  brief  days.  Medical  science  has  no  panacea  for  a 
broken  heart.  But  to  those  who  loved  her  there  seemed  a 
significance  in  the  fact  that  when,  after  death,  they  took  from 
her  the  sapphire  ring  which  her  lover  had  given  her,  the  stone 

was  found  shattered  from  end  to  end. 

❖ * * * * 

A few  days  later  the  tragedy  of  that  cruel  separation  was 
at  last  erased.  She  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  grave  where  her  husband 
had  preceded  her,  under  the  handiwork  which  had  been  to  her 
the  expression  of  a bitter  grief  ; and  in  that  moment  the  sunshine 
which  had  been  obscured  by  a mist  broke  forth — the  sunshine 
that  had  come  too  late.  Yet  it  flooded  the  world  with  light, 
so  that,  in  that  sudden  coming  of  spring,  the  air  was  full  of  the 
song  of  birds,  the  tender  green  of  the  young  trees  stood  revealed 


THE  ‘LONG  DIMINUENDO’ 


385 

in  delicate  tracery  against  a blue  sky,  and  yellow  butterflies, 
like  flecks  of  gold,  were  disporting  themselves  above  the  grave. 
Spring  had  come ; and  with  it  a reunion  of  lovers.  ‘ It  is  as 
much  the  end  as  it  ever  is/  De  Morgan  had  written  in  Joseph 
Vance ; 4 The  long  diminuendo  had  died  down  to  silence,  or 
to  a pause  followed  by  a new  movement  that  we  who  are  left 
in  the  silence  could  not  hear/ 

***** 

In  the  lovely  spring-time  which  followed  Evelyn’s  death,  her 
friend  Miss  Morris  wrote  sadly : — 

‘ Her  genius  may  have  posthumous  recognition  with  the  world — but 
that  is  all  so  stupid  and  cold,  and  doesn’t  matter  to  us  who  wanted  her  to 
go  on  living  and  working.  . . . The  news  of  her  death  seems  still  unreal 
to  me  . . . yet  I am  sure  it  was  only  her  courage  and  fine  spirit  that  kept 
her  alive  since  William  went.  She  was  lost  without  him.  . . . 

‘ The  other  day  I rode  to  the  place  where  thousands  of  fritillaries  grow — 
(The  week  before  I wanted  them  for  her,  but  could  not  get  there) — and  sat 
down  on  the  way  by  the  beautiful  canal.  Just  opposite  was  a miracle  of 
an  apple-tree  reflected  in  the  water.  It  was  most  wonderful  and  made 
me  think  much  of  her,  as  it  was  the  sort  of  loveliness  she  delighted  in 
painting.  . . . 

* An  old  friend  wrote,  on  reading  the  Westminster  Gazette,  saying  how 
shocked  and  sorry  he  was,  and  recalling  the  first  time  he  saw  her  and 
“ instantly  loved  her.”  She  was  coming  up  from  the  river-meadow  here, 
looking  so  fresh  and  happy  and  full  of  life.  . . .* 

‘ So  fresh  and  happy  and  full  of  life ! * the  words  sting  with 
the  bitterness  of  contrast.  Yet  looking  to-day  at  the  quiet 
grave  wherein  lie  so  still  the  busy  hands  and  vivid  brains  which 
once  wrought  all  that  loveliness  in  the  world  of  men,  one  feels 
that  those  two  who  sleep  there  have  known  the  greatest  good 
that  earth  could  offer.  For  it  has  been  claimed  that  the  best 
thing  in  life — and  death — is  to  make  the  world  better  than  we 
found  it ; and  the  next  best  is  to  leave  it  more  beautiful. 

Respecting  the  work  which  Evelyn  De  Morgan  left  behind 
her,  it  may  be  added  that  she  bequeathed  all  the  pictures  in 
her  studio  at  her  death  to  be  sold  by  public  auction  for  the 
soldiers  who  had  been  blinded  during  the  war , while  the  finest 
specimens  of  her  husband’s  lustre-ware  of  which  she  died  possessed, 
executed  by  him  during  the  final  closing-down  of  the  factory, 
she  left  as  a gift  to  the  Victoria  and  Albert  Museum. 

Her  earlier  pictures,  of  which  she  kept  no  record,  are  dispersed 
about  the  world  ; but  the  present  writer  has  a fine  and  repre- 
sentative collection  of  both  pictures  and  pottery,  which  will 
eventually  be  offered  to  the  nation,  unless  in  the  interval  some 
philanthropist  cares  to  concentrate  them  in  a De  Morgan  Gallery, 
commemorative  of  two  remarkable  lives  and  of  an  interesting 
phase  in  our  national  art. 

BB 


386  WILLIAM  AND  EVELYN  DE  MORGAN 

In  regard  to  the  pictures  in  this  collection,  Sir  Luke  Fildes, 
R.A.,  shortly  after  Evelyn’s  death,  received  the  following  letter 
from  a correspondent  who  had  closely  studied  her  painting : — 

* I was  interested  in  your  wishing  to  know  something  of 
her  methods.  There  must  have  been  great  stretches  of  labour 
between  her  dreams  and  their  realization.  She  did  not  paint 
her  fellow-creatures,  but  beings  of  her  imagination  in  the  spheres 
of  esoteric  belief,  and  she  is  alone  in  her  consummate  methods 
of  expression.  She  never,  so  far  as  I have  seen,  produced  the 
texture  of  Holbein,  but  some  of  her  work  is  as  delicate,  and 
reaches  the  perfection  of  Albert  Durer.  Her  craftsmanship  has 
a stupendous  range,  and  a careful  study  of  her  work  reveals  the 
existence  of  a thousand  secrets  that  will  never  be  known.  She 
painted  all  day  long  and  nearly  every  day  for  more  than  forty 
years. 

‘ To  me  her  supreme  quality  is  the  purity  and  brilliance  of 
her  palette.  She  seemed  to  be  in  possession  of  a faculty  analogous 
to  the  tuning  fork  of  a musician  to  which  she  could  always  refer 
her  problems  without  losing  the  exact  pitch  of  a single  note. 
She  had  the  imagination  of  a poet  in  the  languages  of  form  and 
colour  with  the  genius  of  a great  musician  in  the  harmonies  of 
vision. 

4 The  subjects  that  engrossed  her  contemplation  were  Epic, 
yet,  revelling  in  the  lyrics  of  the  daisy  and  violet,  she  justified 
the  imagery  of  Shakespeare  by  “ painting  meadows  with  delight.” 

* As  the  possessor  of  all  these  wonderful  gifts,  with  the  capacity 
for  giving  them  full  and  manifold  expression,  she  was  alone  in 
a world  that  must  have  seemed  sordid  when  she  looked  down 
and  not  worthy  of  consideration  when  she  looked  up.  Reward 
she  had  none  and  has  gone  to  her  rest. 

‘ Her  fame  must  now  wait,  as  far  as  I can  see,  upon  the  future 
operations  of  speculative  dealers,  as  happened  with  Millet, 
Corot,  M.  Maris,  and  their  fraternity. 

* Some  day,  perhaps  not  far  distant,  when  a big  “ comer  ” 
has  been  made,  the  doubtful  Gainsborough  and  dubious  Hals 
will  be  removed  from  the  galleries  of  docile  millionaires  and 
replaced  by  De  Morgans,  where  they  will  hang,  let  us  hope,  as  a 
standing  rebuke  to  the  vulgarity  of  the  buyers  and  their  motives 
for  buying.  . . . 

' Enough,  enough,  it  is  a mad  and  foolish  world  and  a planet 
that  was  not  fit  for  Evelyn  De  Morgan  to  live  in.  . • «' 


In  Memorioi 
Evelyn  De  Morgan  pinxit 

In  purple  draperies,  and  holding  a ivreath  of  immortelles. 


ANGLO-INDIAN 
ANCESTORS  OF 
WILLIAM 
DE  MORGAN 


ANGLO-INDIAN  ANCEST* 

OF 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGA] 


John  De  Morgan  had  a 
Brother,  Lieut.  William  De 
Morgan.  D.  1747 


Lieut.  John  De  Morgan,  Gazetted  Ensij 
East  India  Company  1715.  B.  1694.  ■ 
Publicat  1 Dec.  1760 


(1)  Elizabeth 
B.  Nov.  1734 


(2)  Susanna 
B.  Nov.  1735 


(3)  Mary 
B.  Dec.  1736 

P)  Elizabeth  married  John  Des  Voeux  at  Negapatam,  died  two  months  after  marriage.  No  Issu* 
2ndly,  12  Aug.  1750,  James  Wilson.  Died  1761  without  Issue. 

3rdly,  11  June,  1762,  John  Calland,  and  had  Issue 


(4)  Edward 
B.  Dec.  1737 


1 ! I 

1.  John  2.  Elizabeth  3.  Elizabeth 

B.  24  Nov.  1763  B.  10  Dec.  1764  B.  9 Nov.  1766 

D.  3 Dec.  1765  D.  12  Jan.  1768 

(2)  Susanna  married  Colonel  Charles  Campbell  15  July,  1750,  and  had  Issue 


4.  Sarah 
B.  30  May,  1768 
M.  — Hawkins 


B 


1.  Donald 
B.  4 June,  1751 


2.  Lawrence 
B.  27  Aug.  1753 


3.  Isabella 
B.  24  Oct.  1754 


I I I 

4.  Archibald  5.  Charlotte  6.  Amelia 

B.  11  Nov.  1755  B.  30  Nov.  1758  B.  28  Dec.  1751 


J)  Mary  married  first  Thomas  Taylor  29  July,  1750,  and  had  Issue 
>.  9 Jan.  1800 


andly  Robert  Turing  and  had  Issue 
D.  24  Dec.  1764 


2.  Mary 

B.  7 Feb.  1753 


1.  John 
B.  4 May,  1751 

(4)  Edward  died  young 

(5)  Ann  married  first  Captain  John  Innes  24  Nov.  1753,  and  had  Issue 


1.  Mary 
B.  5 April  1757 


sndly  James  West  21  April,  1761,  and  had  Issue 


1.  Ann 

B.  6 Oct.  1755 


2.  John 

B.  21  Mar.  1757 


3.  George 
B.  15  Oct.  1758 


4.  James 
B.  9 Jan.  1760 


1.  Sarah 
B.  13  May,  1762 


2.  James 
B.  1 May,  1764 


3.  Mary 

B.  22  June,  1765 

Mr.  Parry 


4.  Charles 
B.  22  June,  1766 


5.  Died  young 
B.  17  Dec.  1767 


6.  Ann  7. 

B.  30  Dec.  1768  B. 

Bannerman 


Thomas 
15  July,  1 77 


(6)  Augustus  married  Christiana  Huttemann,  daughter  of  the  Rev.  Conrade  Huttemann,  31  July,  1769,  and  had  Issue 
D.  11  Oct.  1778.  Killed  at  the  Siege  of  Pondicherry  upon  the 
Sap  Battery  while  he  was  laying  a gun  against  the  Fort 


(7)  Jane  married  J.  R.  Richard  Maitland  2 Feb.  1761,  and  had  Issue 
Died  1764 


1.  Catherine 
B.  10  April,  1762 
[See  (3)  No.  1]  1.  John  Taylor 
2.  — Roebuck 


2.  Sophia 
B.  3 May,  1763 


3.  Richard 
B.  8 Sept.  1764 


(8)  Charles.  Died  young 

(9)  George.  Died  young 


Colonel  John  De  Morgan,  East  Inc 
pany.  B.  Oct.  1772.  D.  Nov.  1816  2 


{L 


John  2.  James 

Lost  on  voyage  home  from  India 
in  the  Prince  of  Wales,  c.  1804 


3.  Eliza 

B.  2 7 Sept.  1801 

Lewis  Hensley 


1.  Eliza.  Jan.  B.  1831 

2.  Emily  Martha.  B.  1833 

3.  Augustus  De  M.  B.  1834 

4.  Harriet  Georgiana.  B.  183 


1.  Elizabeth  Alice 
B.  4 June,  1838 
D.  Xmas.  1853 


* 


2.  William  Frend= 
B.  16  Nov.  1839 
M.  Mar.  1887 
D.  16  Jan.  1917 


=Mary  Evelyn  Pickering 
D.  2 May,  1919 


3.  George  Campbell 
B.  16  Oct.  1841 
D.  1867 


5Sc 


• The  asterisks  denote  the  direct  descent. 


s 


Sarah  de  Pommar6,  daughter  of  Peter 
de  Pommar£.  M.  Sept.  1717.  D.  1720. 


Ann  Turberville  or  Turville  (Second 

wife).  D.  Negapatam  1707 

> 1739 


* 


(6)  Augustus 

B.  Nov.  1740 


(7)  Jane 
B.  July,  1743 


(8)  Charles 
B.  Dec.  1745 


(9)  George 

B.  Oct.  1746 


js  6.  George  7.  Augustus 

1771  B.  23  April,  1772  B.  28  April,  1773 


tLES 

1763 


8.  George  9.  Died  young 

B. 25  Jan.  1763  B.  1764 


10.  Sophia  11.  Harriet  Frances 

B.  24  May,  1767  B.  4 Jan.  1769 


2.  Helen 

B.  14  Oct.  1758 


3.  Robert 
B.  17  April,  1760 


r 

ibeth  9.  William 

lg.  1774  B.  20  Aug.  1773 

. Stevenson 
tcklin 


10.  Richard 
B.  21  Aug.  1776 


11.  Harriet 
B.  15  Sept.  1778 


12.  Charlotte 
B.  4 Aug.  1779 
Col.  Walker 


\ 

13.  Frances 
B. 1781 
Died  young 


14.  Montagu 
B.  5 April,  1783 


rge  Augustus 
le  1770 

in  Madras  Cavalry) 


2.  John 
B.  5 Oct.  1772 


3.  Edward 
B.  19  Aug.  1773 


andly  Duncan  Buchanan  17  Apr.  1767,  and  had  Issue 


1.  John  2.  Elizabeth 

B.  13  Sept.  1768  B.  5 Jan.  1770 


3.  James 
B.  22  Sept.  1773 


4.  Janet  Heleh 
B.  11  Nov.  1774 


Elizabeth,  daughter  of  John  Dodson,  of 
Custom  House,  London. 

Married  at  Colombo,  Ceylon,  1798.  D.  1856. 

1*1  If 

1.  Georgian  a 5.  Augustus  = Sophia  Elizabeth  Frend  6.  George  7.  C 

Died  young 


B.  27  June, 
1806 
D. 1871 


M. 1837 

D. 1892 


B.  18  July,  1808 
D.  1890 


ampbell  Greig 
B.  22  Nov.  1811 
D. 1876 
Kate  Hudson 


1.  Walter  Campbell 

2.  John 


(ward  Lindsey  =Ada  Stratford-Wright 

5.  Anne  Isabella™ Dr.  Thompson 

6.  Helena  Christiana 

7.  Mary  Augusta 

me,  1843  | 

B.  1845 

I 

D.  unmarried 

D.  unmarried 

S72 

M. 1874 

I 

1870 

1907 

18o 

D.  1904 

J 

Had  Issue 

Had  Issue 

The  asterisks  denote  the 

direct  descent.  • 

INDEX 


A 

Abingdon,  122 

Absalom,  Professor,  273,  329 
Academy,  The  Royal,  9,  79,  189,  192  ; 

President  of,  179 
Academy,  The  (magazine),  323 
Academy  Schools,  51,  57,  58 
Achilles,  225 
Acton,  43 

Adam  and  Eve,  Story  about,  140,  145 
Addison  Road,  228 
Adelaide  Road,  52,  61 
Ady,  Mrs.  (Julia  Cartwright),  245, 
264,  362,  363 

Affair  of  Dishonour,  An,  331  et  seq., 
348,  349 

Aitken,  Miss,  m,  112 
Aix  les  Bains,  302 
Albert,  The  (a  boat),  121 
Alchemist's  Daughter,  The  (picture  by 
W.  De  Morgan),  84 
Aldwincle  All  Saints,  137  footnote 
Alice- for- Short,  237,  261,  263,  266,  267, 
269,276,  281,  also  footnote',  282, 
283,  290,  299,  300,  301,  304 
et  seq. 

Allingham,  Mrs.,  13 

America,  60,  243,  247,  279,  305 ; 

verse  from,  320,  326 
Amor  Amoris,  32 7 
Anagrams,  65 
Ancaster,  Lady,  269,  309 
Andalusia,  306 
Andersen,  Hans,  248,  309 
Anderson’s  “ British  Poets,”  342 
Andover,  The  Viscountess,  143 
Angel  of  Death,  The  (picture  by  E. 

De  Morgan),  174 
Angel,  The  Leper,  356 
Angler,  The  Complete,  123 
ingela,  see  Mackail 


Angelus,  337,  338 

Annunciation,  The  (picture  by  E. 

Burne-Jones),  74 
Anson,  The  Viscountess,  143 
Antenor,  The  Hall  of,  211 
Anti-Logarithm’s  Cannon,  23 
Antinous,  The  Young,  146 
Appassionata,  The  Sonata,  328 
Appleton’s,  245 
Arab  Hall,  204 

Archbishop  of  York  (Lancelot  Black- 
burne),  29,  also  footnote',  298 
Ariadne,  70 

Ariadne  in  Naxos  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  190 
Ark,  The,  120 
Log  of,  1 2 0-122 
Arkroyd,  Judith,  321,  322 
Arno,  The,  83,  191,  209,  254,  360 
Art  Workers’  Guild,  379 
Arts  and  Crafts,  205 
Ashbee,  Mr.,  96  footnote 
Ashburnham,  Lord,  129 
Asia  Minor,  Pottery  from,  228 
Assisi,  186 

Athenceum,  The,  74,  109,  254 
Auerbach,  253 

Aurora  Triumphans  (picture  by  E. 

De  Morgan),  192 
Austin,  Alfred,  199 
Author,  The,  339 
Authors’  Clipping  Co.,  367 
Authors’  Society,  The,  339 
Avalon,  230 


B 

Bablockhithe,  124 
Bacchus,  70,  224 
Bagehot,  Mrs.  Walter,  194 
Baldwin,  Mr.  Alfred  Stanley-,  294 


392 


INDEX 


Bale,  Mr.,  Narrative  of,  91-94*  127,  130 
Balham,  301 
Balzac,  381 
Barbauld,  Mrs.,  30 

Barnard,  Bishop  & Barnard,  Messrs., 
86 

Bate,  Percy,  189,  201  footnote 
Bath,  Sojourn  at,  205 
Battersea,  82 

Crucible  works,  90 
Park,  107 
“ Bawp,”  A,  63 
Beatty,  Mrs.,  240  and  footnote 
Beddgelert,  61 
Bedford,  Duke  of,  221,  224 
Beethoven,  89,  328 
Bellosquardo,  363 
Belshazzar’s  Feast,  70 
Beppino,  235 
Berlin,  192 

Bettws-y-coed,  61,  63 
Bewick’s  “ Birds,”  41 
“ Bible  John,”  24 

Bicycle,  invention  for,  244  footnote 
Birmingham,  192 
Black  Bag,  The,  298 
Blackbume,  Archbishop  of  York,  29, 
also  footnote ; 298 
Archdeacon,  28 
The  Rev.  Francis,  28 
Sarah,  29,  42 
Blake,  William,  30 
Blind  Jim,  313  et  seq. 

Blockley,  126,  127 

Blunt,  Reginald,  1 3,  86,  87,  also  foot- 
note ; 91,  215,  225 
Correspondence  with,  216-220,  223, 

225,  379 

Boer  War,  The,  223 
Bookman,  The,  259 ; quotation  from, 
267,  also  Jootnote 
Boreas,  31 1 
Bossom,  Mr.,  123 
Boulogne,  303 
Boyce,  G.  P.,  82 
Biadgate,  Lionel,  14 
Brancalone,  The  Marchese,  95 
Brickdale,  Eleanor  Fortescue,  104,  242 
Brignall,  28 
Brittany,  21 
Brookwood,  376 
Brougham,  Lord,  30 


Browne,  Sir  James  Crichton-,  286 

Browning,  Robert,  30,  328,  329,  36® 

Brownings,  The,  201 

Bruton  Street,  Exhibition,  248 

Bryanston  Square  (No.  48),  187,  194 

Budget  of  Paradoxes,  32 

Burdett,  Sir  Francis,  30 

Burgess  (a  maid),  179 

Burial  of  Sir  David  Wilkie,  The,  348 

Burke,  339 

Burlington,  Earl  of,  142 
Burlington  (magazine),  100  footnote,207 
footnote 

Burne-Jones,  (Sir)  Eward,  65 ; car- 
toons by,  66-70,  71  ; signature 
of,  72  ; 73,  74,  77  ; grandchildren 
of,  105;  115,  116,  130,  1 31, 143, 
188;  the  art  of,  191 ; 192,  193, 
194,  202,  209-2 11,  death  of, 
230 ; memorials  of,  231-2, 
245,  300  footnote 

Lady  (also  Mrs.),  71, 103,  202, 231-2 ; 
236, 239,  240,  265,  275,  276, 294, 
374 

Margaret,  75,  84,  120,  122-5,  194. 
See  also  Mrs.  Mackail. 

Philip,  84,  275,  also  footnote,  Sir 
Philip 
Buss,  Miss,  51 

Byron,  Lady  Noel,  29  footnote,  31,  46 
By  the  Waters  of  Babylon,  201,  also 
footnote 


C 

Cairo,  204,  205,  241,  253,  275 
Cambridge,  26,  140 

Camden  Street,  Home  in,  51,  52,  336, 

337*  355 
Camelot,  65 

Campbell,  William  (the  poet),  30 
Campbell-Bannerman,  302 
Cantagalli,  129,  208,  219,  224,  also 
footnote ; 225 

Cannon  Jim5  258,  265  footnote 
Cannons  Ashby,  137  footnote 
Capstick,  Mr.,  52 

Captives,  The  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  357 
Cardigan,  Lord,  149 


INDEX 


393 


Carlisle,  Lord  (George  Howard),  246 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  9,  82,  m-113 
Carocci,  95 

Carpenter,  Mrs.  E.,  14 
Dr.,  109 

Cartoons,  Game  of,  62,  66-70 
Cary,  Francis  Stephen,  51,  52 
The  Rev.  H.  F.,  52,  66 
Cassandra  (picture  by  E.  De  Morgan), 
192  footnote 
Catlin,  50,  253,  331 
Caversham,  12 1 
Cecil,  137 
Celtic  names,  21 
Cerberus,  67,  70,  204,  327 
Chaffers,  227 
Challis,  232  et  seq. 

Chappel  and  Pole,  265 
Charles  I,  137 
Cheiron,  225 

Chelsea,  82,  83,  96,  114,  127,  129,  195, 
199,  200,  223,  228,  240,  320, 
33°»  337.  3<52,  376,  379,  380 
Bridge,  82 
Embankment,  340 
Infirmary,  363 

Old  Church,  82,  99,  375,  379-382 
Cheyne  Row,  81,  82,  98,  108,  227,  254, 

363 

Walk,  254 

Choice  of  Chance,  A,  105 

Christie  and  Manson,  340 

Christmas  (1873),  84;  (1897),  217; 

(1910),  340  ; (1916),  371 
Church  Street,  Chelsea,  127,  337,  365, 
379*  380 

Churchill,  Winston,  255 
City  of  Light,  The  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  192  footnote 
Clifton  Loch,  21 
Clouds,  252,  also  footnote 
Coelebs,  141 

Coke  of  Norfolk,  142  ; daughters  of, 
143 

Coke,  Thomas,  1st  Earl  of  Leicester, 
142 

Coleridge,  Samuel,  30 
Collier,  The  Hon.  John,  180 
Colombo,  23 
Columbus,  50,  210 

Coming  of  Peace,  The  (picture  by  E. 
De  Morgan),  383 


Cook,  Sir  Theodore,  302 
Coombe,  341 

Cooper,  Fenimore,  50,  331 

Cophetua,  King,  73 

Copperfield,  David,  254,  256,  a68,  272 

Corot,  386 

Cosens,  Samuel,  147 

Cots  wolds.  The,  126 

Coupland,  Jim,  323  et  seq . 

Coventry,  126 
Crane,  Walter,  105 
Crippen  Murder,  The,  338-9 
Crown  of  Glory,  The  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  192  footnote 
Cruikshank,  R.,  269 


D 

Damascus,  204 
Dante,  83 

Translator  of,  66 

Daughters  of  the  Mist,  The  (picture  by 
E.  De  Morgan),  311 
Dave  and  Dolly,  269,  343 
Davidson,  Mr.,  61 
Miss,  61 

Dawn,  The  (picture  by  E.  De  Morgan), 
201  footnote 

Dead  Man’s  Canyon,  303 
Debenham,  Mr.,  228 
Defoe,  29 
Street.  29 

Della  Robbia  ware,  91 
Demoivre,  21,  25 
De  Morgan,  Origin  of,  21 
Family  Chronologically— 

John,  great-great-grandfather  of 
W.  De  Morgan,  21,  22 
Augustus  (Captain),  son  of  above, 
21  ; death  of,  23 

Christina,  or  Christiana  (Hutte- 
mann),  wife  of  Augustus,  23 
George  Augustus  (son  of  Augustus 
and  Christina),  23 
John,  Colonel,  ditto,  grandfather 
of  W.  De  Morgan,  life  in  India, 
24  ; death,  24  ; spirit  of,  35-36 
Elizabeth,  wife  of  John  De  Mor- 
gan {nie  Dodson),  23,  24,  25, 
26 


394 


INDEX 


Augustus  (son  of  John  and  Eliza- 
beth), Professor,  and  celebrated 
mathematician,  birth,  24  ; ex- 
hibits mathematical  talent,  25  ; 
makes  acquaintance  of  William 
Frend,  29  ; becomes  Professor 
of  Mathematics  at  London  Uni- 
versity, 27  ; marriage,  30-31  ; 
humour  of,  32,  33,  329  ; meet- 
ing with  Dickens,  34  ; investi- 
gates Spiritualism,  34,  35,  36, 
also  footnote,  37 ; religious 
views,  37,  81  ; letter  from,  57  ; 
resigns  Professorship,  79,  80 ; 
death  of,  81  ; further  references 
to,  51,  53,  56,  61,  65,  109,  no, 

259.  336 

Sophia,  wife  of  Professor  (Augus- 
tus) De  Morgan  ( nie  Frend), 
mother  of  W.  De  Morgan,  girl- 
hood, 30,  31  ; marriage,  31 ; 
settles  in  Gower  Street,  32 ; 
philanthropic  schemes,  32 ; 
writes  From  Matter  to  Spirit 
35  ; Nursery  Journal  of,  38-50  ; 
visits  Burne-Jones,  73  ; writes 
Memoir  of  her  husband,  109  ; 
death  of,  205-6  ; Reminiscences 
of,  206 

Eliza  (sister  of  Prof.  De  Morgan), 
336 

Elizabeth  Alice  (eld.  dau.  of 
Prof.  De  Morgan),  38  et  seq. ; 
death  of,  48,  80,  337 

William  Frend  (eld.  son  of  Prof. 
De  Morgan),  Sir  W.  Richmond’s 
description  of,  9-1 1 ; ancestry 
and  parentage,  21-37  ; early 
years,  38-50  ; visits  Fordhook, 
43  ; youth,  51-81  ; Cary’s 
School,  52  ; stays  at  Lynton, 
55  ; at  University  College,  56  ; 
at  the  Academy  Schools,  57 ; 
called  “the  Mouse,*’  59,  103; 
personal  appearance,  60  ; visits 
Betts- y-coed,  61-6 ; hears 
Waldstein  Sonata,  61  ; plays 
“Game  of  Cartoons,’’  62,  66- 
70 ; friendship  with  Burne- 
Jones,  Rossetti,  Spencer- Stan- 
hope, etc.,  70  ; lives  in  Fitzroy 
Square,  73-4  ; making  stained 


glass,  77  ; tiles,  78-9  ; death  of 
his  father  and  sister,  80-1  ; 
moves  to  Cheyne  Row  and 
starts  making  pottery,  81  ; 
Chelsea  Period,  82-101  ; stained 
glass  for  Stanley  Park,  83 ; 
Christmas  at  the  Grange,  84  ; 
takes  Orange  House,  85  ; ex- 
periments in  lustre,  88,  95,  96, 
2 1 6,  219  ; in  Mosaic  work,  93  ; 
Merton  Abbey  Period,  102-30 ; 
anecdotes  of,  102-5 ; contro- 
versy with  Dr.  Carpenter,  109  ; 
with  Herbert  Spencer,  1 09-11  ; 
with  Thomas  Carlyle,  rn  ; at 
Sands  End,  Fulham,  129 ; en- 
gagement, 1 30-1  ; marriage, 
194-5  > settles  in  The  Vale, 
19b,  199.  200,  201  ; death  of 
mother,  205-6  ; ordered  abroad, 
205-6 ; life  in  Florence,  206- 
29 ; decorates  ships’  panels, 
211-13 ; financial  difficulties, 
21  $ et  seq.  ; closes  factory,  226. 
Writes  Joseph  Vance,  233 ; 
publication  of,  245  ; method  of 
writing,  261-72,  279-83 ; ap- 
praisement of  Dickens,  283-6; 
writes  Alice-f or -Short,  261,  263, 
264,  265,  276,  278  ; publication 
of,  279  ; writes  Somehow  Good, 
286  et  seq.  ; controversy  with 
Roman  Catholics,  290-4  ; views 
on  a future  life,  272-5,  295  ; 
correspondence,  294-307  ; buys 
engagement  ring,  309 ; writes 
It  Never  Can  Happen  Again 
315,  320;  publication  of,  320, 
325 ; sits  for  portrait,  317 ; 
“ house-cooling  ’’  at  The  Vale, 
318-19  ; appreciation  of  various 
authors,  325-8 ; writes  An 
Affair  of  Dishonour,  331-3  ; 
publication  of,  333-4 ; views 
on  Female  Suffrage,  334-5  ; 
settles  in  Church  Street,  337  ; 
speech  at  Authors’  Society# 

339 , *  writes  A Likely  Story, 

340,  341  ; meets  Mr.  L.  J. 
Vance  and  Prof.  Phelps,  342  ; 
writes  When  Ghost  meets  Ghost, 
343-5 » publication  of,  345-7  ; 


INDEX 


395 


leaves  Florence,  350  ; views  on 
Spiritualism,  352-8  ; old  age, 
359-76  ; outbreak  of  war,  359  ; 
two  last  novels,  361  ; writes 
verses,  118,  364,  365,  366,  367  ; 
experiments  and  inventions, 
370-1  ; death,  372  ; obituary, 
374-5  ; funeral,  375-6 ; me- 
morial to,  379-82 
Evelyn,  see  also  Pickering,  II,  12, 
1 31  ; birth  and  early  life,  135  ; 
christening,  141  ; education, 
144  ; stories  of  childhood,  145- 
51  ; painting  in  nursery,  151-2  ; 
early  writings,  153-72  ; mania 
for  painting,  173  ; goes  to 
Slade  Schools,  177  ; takes  prizes 
and  scholarship,  180 ; stories 
told  by,  181-5  ; goes  to  Rome, 
185  ; sculpture,  186;  exhibits  in 
Grosvenor  Gallery,  190  ; ditto. 
New  Gallery,  192  ; association 
with  Spencer-Stanhope,  191  ; 
sends  to  various  Exhibitions. 
192  ; paints  The  Thorny 
Way,  192-3 ; meets  W.  De 
Morgan,  194 ; wedding,  195, 
196 ; paints  Love's  Passing, 
201  ; finds  letter  at  Sidmouth, 
202-3  ; finances  pottery,  204, 
224  footnote,  225,  231  ; finds 
Joseph  Vance,  233;  142,  193, 
222,  223,  238,  242,  245,  248, 
249.  313.  317.  339.  259-60; 
as  “ The  Real  Janey,"  308-12  ; 
letter  to  Mrs.  Morris,  315  ; 317, 
319.  350,  353.  354.  355.  35^. 
357.  369.  37i.  372.  373.  374. 
377  ; finishes  two  novels,  378- 
9 ; sculptures  gravestone,  382  ; 
last  pictures,  383  ; death,  384- 
5 ; bequest  to  Victoria  and 
Albert  Museum,  385  ; apprecia- 
tion of  painting,  386 
George  Campbell,  2nd  son  of 
Prof.  De  Morgan,  38,  48,  61,  80 
Edward,  38,  61 

Annie,  61,  62  ; marriage  to  Dr. 

Thompson,  86  ; death  of,  128 
Chrissy  (Christina),  61,  62,  81 
Mary,  61,  62,  81,  105,  106,  230, 
241,  242,  250,  270,  275,  295 


Walter,  13,  369,  370 
Richard,  13 
Demoivre,  21,  25 
De  Morgan  Road,  214,  215 
Demosthenes,  21 

Derby,  Countess  of  (Miss  Farren),  1 41 
Dickens,  Charles,  interview  with,  10, 
51,  67,  125,  246,  261,  268,  269, 
270,  271,  272,  273,  329,  378,  381 
Society,  The,  271 
Dilke,  Sir  Charles,  114 
Disraeli,  Benjamin,  115,  116 
Doccia,  95 

Dodson,  Elizabeth,  see  Elizabeth  De 
Morgan 
James,  23,  25 
John,  23 

William,  nom  de  plume,  106 
Donaldson,  Andrew,  9 
Doulton,  Sir  Henry,  306-7 
Dowdeswell,  Miss  Seraphina,  235 
D>wning  Professor,  The,  300 
Dowson,  Mrs.  Maisie,  13,  236,  237,  238, 
245,  295.  See  also  Woolner, 
Mrs.  Hugh 
Drew,  Mrs.,  247,  302 
Dring,  213 

Dryad,  A (picture  by  E.  De  Morgan), 
192  footnote 

Dry  den,  John  (the  poet),  137,  also 
footnote 

Dunn,  Professor,  307 
Dunwich,  334 
Duomo,  The,  276,  293 
Durer,  Albert,  386 
Dyer,  George,  30 


E 

East  India  Co.,  22 
Edict  of  Nantes,  21 
Egypt,  242,  275,  295 
Egyptian  Government,  The,  205 
Egyptian  potters,  306 
Eldridge,  Mrs.,  323,  324,  348 
Elgood,  Mrs.,  275 
Elizabeth,  Queen,  136,  137 
Ellis,  Mr.  Stewart,  13,  333,  334,  343, 
370 

Empoli,  1 86 
Epsom,  127 


INDEX 


396 

Eton,  123,  140 
Eustace  John,  200  ; 316,  318,  Narra- 
tive of,  375 

Evans,  Dr.  (Sebastian),  232 
Evelyn,  the  diarist,  330 
Ewbank,  213,  217,  219,  224,  227 


F 

Fanshawe,  Colonel,  24 
Farady,  Professor,  35 
Farish,  The  Professor’s  son,  21 
Farren,  Miss,  see  Derby,  Countess  of, 
141 

Faulkner,  Charles,  71,  77,  84,  125 
Favrkes,  Guy,  45,  137 
Fenwick  (Gerry),  286,  287,  288 
Fictionary,  The,  126,  127,  226 
Fielding,  Henry,  43,  381 
Fiesole,  212 
Fildes,  Sir  Luke,  386 
Fine  Art  Society,  The,  192 
Firth,  the  historian,  114,  115 
Fitzroy,  Admiral,  104 

Square,  78,  79,  86,  205.  265,  343 
Fleming,  Mrs.  Alice  ( see  also  Kipling), 
84  ; verses  by,  84-5,  193,  299- 
300,  350-1 

Flora  (picture  by  E.  De  Morgan),  192 
Florence,  68,  83,  95,  206-7,  125,  191, 
206,  207,  208,  209,  213,  215, 
223,  226.  231,  236,  242,  255, 
300,  331.  340.  341#  350.  35L 
352.  353.  360.  363 
Flower,  Mrs.  Wickham,  85 
Foley,  Lord,  148 

Fordhook,  43,  45,  47,  206,  247,  264, 
343 

Fort  Ajengo,  21 
David,  21 
St.  George,  21 
Fortnightly,  The,  333 
Frampton,  Sir  George,  382 
French,  Sir  John,  360 
Mrs.  Underwood,  337 
Frend,  George,  27,  28 

Sophia,  see  Sophia  De  Morgan 
William,  27,  28,  29,  30 
Front  Matter  to  Spirit,  35  footnote , 
3<5.  352.  353 
Fry,  Elisabeth,  32 


G 

Gainsborough,  143,  386 
Gamp,  Mrs.,  125,  196 
Garden  of  [Opportunity,  The  (picture  by 
E.  De  Morgan),  310 
Gaskell,  Mr.  Milnes,  141 
Genoa,  221 
Ginori  Factory,  95 

Gladstone,  The  Right  Hon.  W.  E.,  140, 
247 

Glasgow,  Mayo-,  Mrs.  Sarah,  347 
Glazebrook,  Ethel  (Mrs.  Edward 
Smith),  13 
Hugh  de  T.,  13 

Glenconner,  Lady,  13,  252  ; (Tennant), 
295.  296,  32 3 

Gloria  in  Excelsis  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  192  footnote 
Gosse,  Edmund,  381,  382 
Gower  Street,  51,  56,  178,  185 
Grange,  The,  73,  74,  84,  252 
Graphic,  The,  339 
Graubosch,  323 

Graves,  Mr.,  author  of  Father  O'Flynn , 

65 

Father  of  (Bishop  of  Limerick),  65 
John,  Uncle  of,  65 

Great  Marlborough  Street,  129,  195, 
216,  223,  265 
Green  Street,  141 

Grosvenor  Gallery,  186,  187,  189,  190, 
The  Hon.  Richard,  120,121  (R.C.G.) 
Square,  175 
Gubbio,  95 

Gunn,  Peter,  257,  346 
Gwen  Lady,  343,  346  et  seq. 

H 

Haileybury,  337 
Hall  Caine,  316 
Hals,  386 

Hambledon  Lock,  121 
Hamilton,  Sir  William,  32 
Hammersmith,  119,  120,  2 65  footnote 
Hammond,  Henry  Dennis,  325 
Harding,  J.  D.,  143 
Hardy,  Thoma9,  381 
Harris,  Mrs.  (dispute  about),  125 
Hayden,  Mrs.  (American  medium),  35 
Heard,  Sir  Isaac,  135 


INDEX 


397 


Heath,  Charles,  261,  263,  264,  265, 
278,  3OI>  336 

Heinemann,  William,  13,  237,  240, 
243,  247,  254,  255,  256,  257, 
271,  276,  280,  288,  296,  299, 
302,  313.  314.  3i5»  316,  317. 
318,  321*  322,  343.  344-6.  37® 
Helen  of  Troy  (picture  by  E.  De  Mor- 
gan), 310 
Henley,  121 
Henry  VIII,  136,  156 
Hensley,  The  Rev.  A.  De  Morgan,  13, 
336-7 

Herschel,  Sir  John,  21,  32,  80 
Hertford,  Miss  Laura,  79,  106,  266 
Hewlett,  Maurice,  373 
Hocking,  Silas  K.,  250 
Hodder  & Stoughton,  Messrs.,  237 
Hohenzollem,  The  insolent,  366 
Holiday,  Henry,  9,  61,  62,  63,  65,  66, 
104,  242,  also  footnote ; 249, 
351-2 

Mrs.,  103,  129,  238,  241,  249,  338, 

365 

Miss  (Winifred),  105,  249,  323,  338, 

365 

Holkham,  143 
Holman  Hunt,  187 

Holmes,  Mr.  (phrenological  lecturer), 
3i 

Holt,  Henry,  245 
Horsey,  Miss  de,  149 
Huguenot  refugees,  21,  127 
Huttemann,  The  Rev.  Conrade,  22 
Huxley,  Mary,  182 
Hyndman,  xi6 

I 

ties,  Frank,  93,  213,  217,  227 
tmrie,  Mr.,  192,  also  footnote 
It  Never  Can  Happen  Again,  63,  293  ; 
writing  of,  315,  316,  319  ; pub- 
lication of,  320  ; synopsis  of, 
321-3  ; criticism  of,  324-5 
Izzy,  Aunt,  252,  253,  255,  269 

J 

Jackey  (Eustace  John),  54 

Jacox,  52,  53 

Jane  (Hales),  152,  182 


“ Janey  ” in  Joseph  Vance,  235,  236, 
254,  257,  259,  265  footnote , 
308,  329 
Mrs.  Morris,  71 

The  De  Morgan’s  nurse,  41, 45, 152, 
265  footnote 
The  real,  308-312 
Jerrythought,  Mr.,  265 
Joan,  345 
Johnson,  Dr.,  216 
Jones,  see  Burne-Jones 
Jowett,  Dr.,  339 
Julia,  the  barmaid,  343 
Juster,  Joe,  86 

K 

Kelmscott  House,  119,  127,  128,  265 
Manor,  118,  120 
Kelsall,  Walter,  13 
Kensington  High  Street,  353 
Kentucky,  346 
Kew,  120 

Keyes,  Robert,  13 7 

Kingdom  of  Heaven  suffereth  Violence, 
The  (picture  by  E.  De  Morgan), 
356 

Kingsley,  Henry,  271 
Mary  (Lucas  Malet),  180 
Kipling,  Alice,  84.  See  Fleming 
John  Lockwood-,  251,  252 
Rudyard,  84 
Kipps  Manor,  331-2,  334 
Knight,  Mr.,  publisher,  34 


L 

Laidlaw,  Willie,  251 
Lamb,  Charles,  282 
Landseer,  98 
Lansbury,  Mr.,  335 
Larkins,  Miss,  340 
A ship,  24 

Lawrence  & Bullen,  237 
W.,  239,  240,  241,  281,  340 
Layard,  Henry  Austen,  66 
Lee,  Stirling-,  W.,  318 
Leighton  House,  204 
Lord,  204 
Le  Queux,  250 
Levanto,  221 


INDEX 


398 

Life  and  Thought  emerging  from  the 
Tomb  (picture  by  E.  De  Mor- 
gan). 192 

Likely  Story,  A,  340,  341 
Lindsey,  Sir  Coutts,  1 89 
Livadia,  the  Czar’s  Yacht,  205,  21 1, 

213.  301 

Lizerann,  323  et  seq.,  362,  373 
Lloyd  George,  335 
Lomax,  Mrs.,  121 

Lossie,  235,  248,  249,  255,  257,  259, 
303,  304.  308,  329,  375 
Lovelace,  Mary,  Countess  of  (n£e 
Stuart  Wortley),  13,  180 
Ralph,  2nd  Earl  of,  46,  55,  180,  247, 
248,  320 

Love's  Passing  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  201 

Love's  Piping  (picture  by  E.  De  Mor- 
gan), 350  ; verses  on,  351 
Lucas,  Horatio,  78  ; Mrs.,  13 
Lu  cilia,  1 41 
Lucinda,  331,  332 

Lustre  ware,  History  of,  95,  also  foot- 
note : remarks  upon,  79,  94,  95, 
96,  129,  216,  217,  219 
Lynmouth,  55 
Lynton,  55 

Lytton,  Sir  Bulwer,  46 
Lady,  46 

M 

MacAdam,  316 
Macdonald,  Dr.  George,  119 

Miss  Georgina,  see  Lady  Burne-Jones 
Mackail,  Angela,  105,  242 
Clare,  105 
Dennis,  105 

John  C.,  13,  113,  114,  115,  119.  226, 
230,  231.  235,  236,  241, 242, 
254,  255,  256,  327,  328,  339,  382 
Margaret,  13, 241,  255,  275,  368,  369. 
See  also  Margaret  Burne-Jones 
(Margot) 

Macleod,  Miss,  121 
Madeira,  24 
Madoline,  340 
Madonna,  Peace,  383 
di  San  Sisto,  88 
Madox-Brown,  Ford,  187 
Madras,  24 


Madura,  24 
Majolica,  217 
Majorca,  208 
Mammon,  312 

Mammon,  The  Worship  of  (picture  by 
E.  De  Morgan),  312 
Marianne,  321,  324  et  seq. 

Mariar,  Aunt,  343 

Marillier,  H.,  297,  also  footnote ; 307 

Maris,  M.,  386 

Marks  on  Pottery,  229 

Marling,  Sir  Samuel,  83 

Marshall,  77 

Martineau,  The  Rev.  James,  79 
Marx,  Karl,  116 

Massier,  Clement,  potter,  95,  129 
Maurier,  du,  236,  254 
Maw’s  Pottery,  104 
Mayo,  Mrs.  Emily,  347 
Medusa,  Bust  of,  1 85-6 
Memorials  of  E.  Burne-Jones,  231-2 
Mercedes  Villa,  209 
“ Mercy  and  Truth,"  etc.  (picture  by 
E.  De  Morgan),  353 
Meredith,  George,  381 
Mermaids,  The  Five  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  248 

Merton  Abbey,  86,  96,  125,  126,  127, 
128,  129,  223,  227 
Period,  The,  102-31 
Mesmerism,  108,  109 
Michelangelo,  264 
Mill,  John  Stuart,  32 
Minister’s  wife,  Letter  from,  304 
Minnesota,  253 
Minorca,  208 
Minton  tiles,  90,  103 
Mo’,  Uncle,  343,  346 
Molesey  Lock,  120 

Moncrieff,  W.  Scott-,  13,  327,  359,  360, 
361 

Montana,  303 

Moonbeams  dipping  into  the  Sea,  The 
(picture  by  E.  De  Morgan),  383 
Moore,  Albert,  9,  77 
Moores,  Charles,  289 
More,  Mrs.  Hannah,  141 
More,  Sir  Thomas,  382 
Morris,  Miss  May,  13,  77,  82,  98 ; 
quotation  from,  98-100 ; 122, 123, 
124,  125,  192,  205,  208-9,  352, 
376-7.  380,  381.  385 


INDEX 


399 


Jenny,  221 

Mrs.,  71.  84,  220,  249,  315,  352 
William,  74-8,  87,  90,  93,  111-14. 
116-19;  Purchases  Kelmscott 
House,  1 19  ; Ditto  Kelmscott 
Manor,  118  ; Verses  to,  118  ; 
Journey  in  Ark,  120  et  seq.,  210, 
226  ; Death  of,  230  ; Biography 
of,  230-1,  253,  265,  269,  376 ; 
Firm  of,  77,  78,  104,  222 
Mosaic  work,  93-4 
Moscheles,  Felix,  369  and  footnote 
Mould,  Mrs.,  196 
Mudie,  Mr.,  49 
Mudie’s  Library,  49 
Mulock,  Miss  D.  M.  (Mrs.  Craik),  67, 
also  footnote  ; 70 

Mundella,  The  Rt.  Hon.  John,  190 


Necklace  of  Princess  Fiorimonde,  The , 
105 

Nelson,  127 

Neptune,  225 

Nesbit,  E.,  270 

Nettleship,  The  oculist,  103 

New  Gallery,  The,  192 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  293 

Nolan,  Father,  291,  293 

Norman,  Philip,  180 

Normandy,  21 

North,  Roger,  138 

Nursery  Journal,  A,  38  etseq.,  98 

Nuti,  Villa,  191,  209,  225,  294,  363 


Old  Mad  House,  The,  361,  372,  378 
Old  Man's  Youth,  The,  Chapter  III, 
55.  3i8.  35°  footnote,  361,  378-9 
Oliver,  Professor,  318 
Ollivant,  Alfred,  326 
On  a Pincushion,  93,  105 
’Opkins,  55 

Orange  House,  85,  87,  125,  227,  363, 
379 

“ Orator  Prig,”  117 
Orchardson,  Sir  William,  205 
Oregon,  253 


Owd  Boh,  326  et  seq. 
Oxford,  122,  123,  125,  126 


P 

Painter  of  Dreams,  A,  363 
Pan,  The  god,  225 
Passenger,  Charles,  86 

Fred,  86,  213,  221,  226,  227 
Paulton  Square,  196,  199 
Pawling,  Mr.,  13,  351 
Pellew,  The  Hon.  Percy,  343,  344,  also 
footnote 

P.  & O.  directors,  211 
ships,  211,  212,  213 
Penny,  Mrs.,  21 
Penny  Encyclopaedia,  290,  293 
Pepys,  Samuel,  330 
Perugia,  186 

Phelps,  Professor  Lyon,  13,  247,  also 
footnote ; 261,  269,  317,  318, 323, 

325.  326,  329,  330,  331.  342# 

349.  350.  360,  367.  379 
Philadelphia,  Lady  from,  324 
Phillott,  Miss  Constance,  29  footnote 
Piccolpasso,  95 
Pickering,  Name  of,  266 
Family  Chronologically — 

Sir  James,  136 

John,  B.D.,  Prior  of  Dominicans, 

136  Dr.,  136 

Sir  William,  Ambassador  to 
France,  136 

Sir  Gilbert,  of  Tichmarsh,  137 
Sir  Gilbert,  Bart.,  Parliamentarian, 

137 

Lady,  his  wife,  138 
John,  his  brother,  of  Gray's  Inn, 

137 

Betty,  Mistress,  his  daughter 
(Mrs.  John  Creede  of  Oundle), 

138 

The  Rev.  Henry,  footnote , 137 
Mary,  footnote,  137 
Edward  Lake,  138, 

Mrs.  (Mary  Umfreville),  138, 
139.  no 

Edward  Rowland,  139 
Mrs.  (Mary  Vere),  139 
Percival  Andree  (son  of  above), 
135,  140,  141,  147 


400 


INDEX 


Mrs.  (Anna  Maria  S.  Stanhope), 
135  ; marriage  of,  141  ; ances- 
try of,  142-3;  144,  145,  146, 
147.  149.  1 53*  154.  174. 

175,  176,  180,  194.  195.  3531 
Memoirs  of,  footnote  145 
Evelyn,  131,  135,  1 41,  145  et 
teq. ; early  writings,  153-72  ; 
girlhood,  173-96 ; marriage, 
196. 

For  Subsequent  Life,  see  De 
Morgan,  Evelyn 

Spencer,  145,  146,  147,  148,  149, 
150.  339 
Mrs.  Spencer,  13 
Rowland,  145,  146,  147 
House,  136 
Regiment,  138 

Pickerings,  Story  of  the,  135-52 
Puritan,  137,  also  footnote  138 
Pickering,  Mr.  (in  fiction),  see  Mr. 
Verrinder 

Pickwick,  First  publication  of,  33 
Pigeons,  The,  265  footnote 
Pollock,  Sir  Frederick,  32 
Polyphemus,  21 1 
Polytechnic,  217,  370,  371 
Pondicherry,  22 
The,  a ship,  21 

Poor  Man  who  Saved  the  City,  The 
(picture  by  E.  De  Morgan),  312 
Portmadoc,  63 

Poynter,  Sir  Edward,  P.R.A.,  13,  84, 
179.  373 

Pre-Raphaelite  Art,  9,  73 

Brotherhood,  66,  70, 143, 187-9, 190, 
201 

Price,  Cormell,  71,  120,  12 1,  124,  232, 
also  footnote)  337,  also  footnote 
Priestley,  Mr.,  62,  63 
Private  War,  The,  Novel  by  L.  J. 
Vance,  258 

Prynne,  The  Misses,  265 
Publicat,  22 
Putney,  200 

Q 

Queen  Eleanor  and  Fair  Rosamund 
(picture  by  E.  De  Morgan) 


Queen  Elizabeth,  136 
Victoria,  180 
Quincey,  de,  339 


R 

Ragstroar,  Michael,  343,  362 
Raydon,  Sir  Oliver,  331  et  seq.,  350 
Realities  (picture  by  E.  De  Morgan), 
357 

Red  Lion  Square,  No.  8,  77,  78,  113 
Renaissance,  The,  97,  191 
“ Retreat,  The  ” (Kelmscott  House),  119 
(The  Vale),  200,  201 
Rheims  Cathedral,  Verses  on,  366 
Rhodes,  204 

Ricardo,  Halsey,  13,  129,  211,  212,  215, 
217,  221,  222,  228,  229,  379 
Richmond,  Sir  William,  Preface  by, 
9-i  1 ; 59,  77,  193,  204,  248,  308, 
372 

Robertson,  Forbes,  97 
Robinson,  Henry  Crabb,  30 
Miss  Mabel,  186-7,  *9 5 
Rosalind,  28,  287,  288,  293 
Roscoe,  Henry,  143 
Rose,  J.  A.,  306 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  9,  71,  187, 
188,  232,  also  footnote)  264,  265, 
297  footnote 

Russell-Cotes,  Herbert,  1 3 
Russell,  Miss  Olive,  13  ; letters  from 
and  to,  349 

S 

Sabine,  General,  66 
St.  Aubyn,  Sir  John  (also  Lord),  150 
St.  Christina  (picture  by  E.  De  Mor- 
gan), 31 1 

St.  George  (picture  by  W.  De  Morgan), 
84 

St.  Helen’s,  Bishopsgate,  136 
St.  John’s,  Fellow  of,  140 
St.  Lorenzo,  276 
Sairah  (in  A Likely  Story),  340 
Sales-Wilson  m6nage,  296 
Sally  (in  Somehow  Good),  2 86,  287,  289, 
296,  299,  300,  302,  303,  304 
Sandford.  125 


INDEX 


Sands  End,  129,  227 
Sandwich,  Earl  of,  138 
Sand  wick,  Mr.,  106 
School  of  Art,  Bombay,  25 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  251 
Scott-Moncrieff,  see  Moncrieff 
Scrap  of  Paper,  A (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  383 
Scrolls  of  Fate,  154-5 
Seamaid,  The  Little  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  248 

Seeley,  Miss  F.,  9,  278,  290,  291,  321 
Seven  against  Sense,  The,  253 
Seymour,  Warren,  266  footnote , 269 
footnote 

Shakespeare,  328,  329,  386 
Shalott,  Lady  of,  66,  118 
Shaw,  Bernard,  237 

-Sparrow,  Walter,  13,  88,  236,  237 
Ships’  panels,  212,  214 
Sickert,  Bernard,  249 
Siddons,  Mrs.,  265 

Sidmouth,  Letter  found  on  beach,  202 
Slade  Schools,  The,  177,  180 
Sleeping  Earth  and  Wakening  Moon , 
The  (picture  by  E.  De  Morgan), 

Smith,  Mrs.  Edward  (Ethel  Glaze- 
brook),  13 

Smith-Dickensen,  Miss,  343,  344,  also 

footnote 

Socialism,  116,  117,  340 
Society  of  Authors,  339 
Sole  Bay,  Battle  of,  332 
Soloman,  Simeon,  9,  61,  62,  77,  339, 
35i 

Somehow  Good,  Origin  of,  286,  287  ; 
odd  coincidences  connected 
with,  288 ; description  of 
drowning,  289 
Somerville,  Mrs.  Mary,  30 
Sonning,  123 

Soul  in  Hell,  A (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  357 

South  Kensington  Museum,  251 
Southampton,  121 
Southwark,  127 

Spectator,  The,  242,  243,  248,  333 
Spencer,  Herbert,  109-n 
Sarry,  252 
Spencers,  The,  142 
Spiers,  Phene,  97 


401 

Spiritualism,  34,  35,  36,  37,  107,  108, 
109,  352,  353,  354,  355,  35^,  357, 
358 

Standert,  Mr.  Hugh,  25 
Stanhope,  Lord,  139 
Stanhope,  Anna  Maria  Spencer-,  135, 
141,  see  Mrs.  Pickering 
The  Rev.  Charles,  14 1 
Lady  Elizabeth,  135,  139;  letter 
bag  of,  141 ; 142 
John,  135 

Roddam,  n,  74,  77,  143,  174,  190, 
191,  194,  208,  363 
Sir  Walter,  353 
Spencer- Stanhopes,  The,  225 
Stanley  Park,  83 

Lady  (D.  Tennant),  180 
Stephen,  Sir  James,  112 
Steptoe,  Mrs.,  323 
Stoker,  Bram,  60,  283,  284 
Mrs.,  13 

Mrs.,  housekeeper  at  Fordhook,  46, 
47 

Stone  House,  Dingle,  334 
Stopleigh,  Sir,  340 

Storm-Spirits,  The  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  167 

Stowe,  Art  Auctioneer,  46,  47 
Straker,  Lavinia,  278,  also  footnote 
Streatley,  12 1 

Stuffed  Mother,  Story  of  the,  183, 

185 

Suffolk,  Earl  of,  1 39 
Sunbury,  120 
Surrey,  Earl  of,  136 
Surtees  Society,  The,  29 
Swettenham,  Sir  Frank,  297 
Swinburne,  328 
Syrian  ware,  204 


T 

Tale  of  Two  Cities,  272 
Taunton,  24,  25 
Taylor,  Athelstane,  63 
the  Planonist,  30 
William,  Letter  from,  202,  203 
Tennant,  Lady,  295,  296.  See  Glen- 
conner 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  329 
Terence,  207,  258 


INDEX 


402 

Thackeray,  William  Makepiece,  10, 
237,  271,  301 

Thirza,  12 1 ; ditto  Ransom,  121 
Thompson,  Dr.  Reginald,  86 
Mrs.  See  Annie  De  Morgan 
Thornes  House,  141 
Thorney  Way,  The  (picture  by  E.  De 
Morgan),  192-3,  173-96 
Thorpe,  Dr.,  235,  236,  270,  272,  273, 
3OI»  329.  35o»  352 
Tibellus,  201 
Tichmarsh,  137,  138 
Tiles,  78,  88,  92,  93  ; Persian  tile,  96 
footnote ; Saracenic,  204,  207, 
208  ; marks  on,  227  ; Dodo 
tile,  250 
Tishy,  296 

Toronto,  Old  Soldier  from,  337 
Tottenham  Court  Road,  347 
Tractarian  Movement,  The,  75 
Traill,  Gordon,  258 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  140 
Library,  26 

Turbeville  (or  Tivill),  22 
Tuscany,  191 
Tyburn,  136 

Tyssen- Amherst,  13,  62,  64 


U 

Ulysses,  21 1 

Umfreville,  Mary,  138.  See  Pickering 
rUniversity,  The  London  (or  University 
College),  26,  27,  37,  51,  55,  56, 

65,  79.  80 

Upper  Cheyne  Row,  85,  86 
Upper  Grosvenor  Street,  No.  6,  141, 
148,  149,  153.  178.  187 


V 

Vale,  The,  195.  196,  199.  256,  318,  319, 
320,  327,  337,  379 

Valley  of  Shadows,  The  (picture  by  E. 

De  Morgan),  260,  310,  311,  357 
Vance,  Christopher,  234,  249,  252,  255 
footnote,  258,  269,  348 
Mrs.,  259,  260 
Governor.  277 


Joseph , Chapter  X,  230-60  ; first 
chapters  of,  233  ; plot  of,  234- 
6,  237,  258 ; publication  de- 
cided on,  240,  242  ; publication 
of,  245 ; letters  relating  to, 
248-57.  263,  284,  295,  303, 
3<>5.  306  et  seq . 

Mr.  Louis  Joseph,  59,  79  footnote , 
243,  244,  245,  256,  258,  259,  260, 
2 77.  298,  299,  325  ; meets  Do 
Morgan,  342  ; 345 

Vassall  Phillips,  Father,  292,  293,  325 
Vellore,  24 

Vere,  Mary,  139.  See  Pickering 
Verrinder,  Mr.,  266 ; alias  Pickering, 
286 

Jane,  262,  285,  299 
Victoria,  Queen,  180, 

Victoria  and  Albert  Museum,  13,  385 
Victorian  Aunt,  341 
Viesseux,  346 


W 

Waddup,  Lady  Mary,  1 50 
Wakefield,  141 

Waldstein  Sonata,  61,  257,  275,  318, 
337 

Walker,  Mr.,  46 
Art  Gallery,  192 
Wallingford,  12 1 
Walpole,  W.  Vade,  1 36  footnote 
Wandersworth,  Alice  (Thornton),  29 
Christopher,  29 

Wandle,  The  River,  126,  127,  276 
War,  Civil,  138 

Outbreak  of  the  Great,  359,  360 
of  Independence,  28 
Ward,  Mrs.  E.  M.,  342 
Mrs.  Humphry,  255,  326 
John,  306,  307 
Sir  Leslie,  342 
Wargrave,  12 1 

Watts,  George  Frederick,  146,  I93e 

231,  311 

Mrs.,  13,  231 
Dr.  Isaac,  29 
Wedgwood,  82,  96 
Welsh,  tenant  at  Merton,  127 
Wenger.  218 


INDEX 


West,  The  Rev.  George,  83 
Westminster  Gazette,  The,  385 
Westmorland,  136 
Whaite,  55 

When  Ghost  meets  Ghost,  289,  343,  344, 
345,  346,  347,  348,  349,  35<>, 
372,  375 

Whistler,  Mr.,  199 
Wilde,  Oscar,  328 
William  the  Conqueror,  138 
Williams,  Mr.,  369 
Wind  Fairies,  The,  105 
Windsor,  123 

Winsor  & Newton,  Colour  Merchants, 
123 

Wix,  Mr.,  343,  346 
Woburn  dairy,  221 
panels,  224 

Wonderful  Village,  The,  footnote  87 


4<>3 

Woolner,  Mrs.  Hugh,  13,  236.  See  also 
Mr9.  Maisie  Dowson 
Thomas,  71 
Worcester,  126 
Wordsworth,  William,  30 
Worship  of  Mammon,  The  (picture  by 
E.  De  Morgan),  311,  312 
Wyndham,  Pamela,  252.  See  also 
Lady  Glenconner 

Y 

Yale  Courrant,  The,  325 
University  of,  330 
Yorkshire,  137,  142 

s 

Zola,  381 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 


By  ROMAIN  ROLLAND 

Translated  from  the  French  by  Gilbert  Cannan.  In 
three  volumes. 

This  great  trilogy,  the  life  story  of  a musician,  at  first 
the  sensation  of  musical  circles  in  Paris,  has  come  to  be 
one  of  the  most  discussed  books  among  literary  circles  in 
France,  England  and  America. 


Each  volume  of  the  American  edition  has  its  own  indi- 
vidual interest,  can  be  understood  without  the  other,  and 
comes  to  a definite  conclusion. 

The  three  volumes  with  the  titles  of  the  French  vol- 
umes included  are : 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

Dawn — Morning — Y outh — Revolt 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

The  Market  Place — Antoinette — The  House 


J GETTY  RESEARCH  INSTITl 


3 3125  01310  9141 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:  JOURNEY’S  END 

Love  and  Friendship — The  Burning  Bush — The  New 

Dawn 


Some  Noteworthy  Comments 

“ ‘Hats  off,  gentlemen — a genius.’  . One  may  mention  ‘Jean-Chris- 
tophe’  in  the  same  breath  with  Balzac’s  ‘Lost  Illusions’ ; it  is  as  big  as 
that.  . It  is  moderate  praise  to  call  it  with  Edmund  Gosse  ‘the 
noblest  work  of  fiction  of  the  twentieth  century.’  . A book  as  big,  as 
elemental,  as  original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  today.  . We 
have  nothing  comparable  in  English  literature.  . ” — Springfield 
Republican. 


“If  a man  wishes  to  understand  those  devious  currents  which  make 
up  the  great,  -changing  sea  of  modern  life,  there  is  hardly  a single 
book  more  illustrative,  more  informing  and  more  inspiring.” — Current 
Opinion. 


“Must  rank  as  one  of  the  very  few  important  works  of  fiction  of  the 
last  decade.  A vital,  compelling  work.  We  who  love  it  feel  that  it 
will  live.” — Independent . 


“The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or 
from  any  other  European  country,  in  a decade.” — Boston  Transcript. 


A 32-page  booklet  about  Romain  Rolland  and  Jean- 
Christophc,  with  portraits  and  complete  reviews,  on 
request. 


HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN’S  NOVELS 


1 


THE  OLD  MADHOUSE 

This  last  of  Mr.  De  Morgan’s  novels  is  among  his  very  best. 

It  is  in  the  vein  of  “Alice-for  short”  and  •‘Somehow  Good. 

A tangled  romance,  dominated  by  the  uncanny  disappearance 
of  old8  Dr.  Carteret,  who  goes  to  look  over  a hou.e  which 
had  once  been  a lunatic  asylum.  The  caretaker  leaves  him 
for  a moment  and  he  is  never,  seen  again. 

Just  published  but  already  in  third  large  printing.  56  pp 

JOSEPH  VANCE 

The  story  of  a great  sacrifice  and  a life-long  love. 

&&$&&&&&&* 

in  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

ALICE-FOlfcSHORT 

The  romance  of  an  unsuccessful  man,  in  which  the  long 
buried  past  reappears  in  London  of  to-day. 

SSL****  ?s  hwK 

T^scrift-  SOMEHOW  GOOD 

How  two  brave  women  won  their  way  to  happiness. 

'“A  ik  as  sound,  as  sweet,  as  wholesome,  as  wise,  as  any  m the 
range  of  fiction.”  —The  Nation. 

IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

A story  of  the  great  love  of  Blind  Jim  and  his  little  daugh- 
ter  and  of  the  affairs  of  a successful  novelist. 

“De  Morgan  at  his  very  best,  and  how  much  ,s  than 

the  work  of  any  novelist  of  the  past  thirty  years, 

AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

A very  dramatic  novel  of  Restoration  days. 

“A  marvelous  esan^of  Mr.^l 

^ Van?e  does  aming  realistic  novels  ."-Chicago  Rocord-Herald. 


A LIKELY  STORY 

. - Begins  comlo^ably^^nou^gh^  wit^^^Httl^^domestic^  ^at,r1lUantly 

ing  fancy  greatly.”— M*"  York  Sun. 


WHEN  GHOST  MEETS  GHOST 

The  most.  “De  Morganish”  of  all  his  stories.  The  scene 
s England  in  the  fifties. 


f-nmRY  holt  an 


TJBLISj0?RS 


